Erebor Reclaimed, Book Three: The Quest of Seven
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: Kíli is confined to Erebor in the aftermath of the journey from Ered Luin, training with the other members of the Oath of Belhel to use their power to the fullest. Fíli prepares Erebor for Melkor's imminent attack; while Ryn must make her way to Fjallstadr in search of the legendary Starstone, which may be Kíli's only hope to resist The Dark Vala's influence...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Welcome, everyone, to the third and final installment of the Erebor Reclaimed Series! If you haven't read the first two tales, _When Comes the Dawn_ and _Inikhdê_, it's recommended that you do so as this one won't make much sense without it—both stories can be found on my profile.

For those of you coming over from _Inikhdê_, welcome back; and thank you so much for sticking with me through this whole series! This story promises some fascinating twists and even more new lore; I'm really excited to share it with all of you. You guys have been fantastic, making even the rough spots—and there've been a few over the past nine months—worth it in the end.

Special thanks, as always, to _summerald_ and _Cassandrala_ for being my awesome writing buddies and helping with proofreading! Both ladies have awesome stories in progress on their profiles—you should really go look them up, it's totally worth your time! Extra shout-outs to _KungFuSchildi_, _drwatsonn_, _Celebrisilweth_, _Eruwaedhiel95_, _ . .Fireplace_, _miller330_, _VioletBrock_, and_ Nocturnal-Silver-Wolf_ for being regular reviewers. Love you guys!

Without further ado—enjoy!

* * *

Ryn drove her sword into an orc's belly mercilessly, crying out in pain and rage as another one stabbed her in the side with a doubtless-filthy dagger. She heard Talos call her name, but couldn't spare a second to be sure he was all right; instead, she whirled around and took the orc's head clean off its misshapen shoulders. Glancing to where her brother had been only moments ago, she was pleased to see him laying into their enemies with his pair of battleaxes, his chestnut hair flying, standing over their companion protectively.

Said companion was no warrior, Ryn knew; the Human lad had no feel for battle at all, and that was even after she'd spent a frustrating number of hours trying to teach him the most basic defensive moves. Elof just wasn't built for it, physically or mentally, though she refused to give up—if he was going to travel, he needed to know how to defend himself.

Those were skills he was currently putting to use, she noted with no small amount of pride, letting Talos cover his back and sides while he dodged and parried a few thrusts from one of the smaller orcs in front of him.

Ryn gasped in relief as she pulled some energy from a nearby tree to heal the stab wound in her side. These days, a simple heal like that took a matter of seconds; and it was a good thing, too, as another wave of orcs—these ones bigger and meaner-looking—appeared behind Talos. Elof's blue eyes widened just as Ryn found her voice:

"Talos! At your back!"

Her brother didn't lose a beat; he spun on his dominant foot, shoving Elof behind him as he did. Elof stumbled; and Ryn sped the five or six paces to where her comrades stood, positioning herself at Talos' back, the lad between them.

"Come on!" Talos hollered at the oncoming horde. "Bring your pretty faces to my axe!" Ryn was busy counting—there were about twenty of them, nothing she couldn't handle with a bit of magic—but spared an eye roll at her brother's brazen cheek; he'd been spending too much time with Kíli's cousin, Gimli. They both quite enjoyed their snark in the midst of battle.

The group drew nearer as Ryn fell into her Magic, identifying and getting a good grip on the sickly-brown energies of the creatures pounding over the forest floor in their direction.

"Any time now," Elof muttered nervously.

With a small grin, Ryn _yanked_ hard at the energies, absorbing the warm energy into her own body. The orcs tripped over themselves and each other, stumbling as their life force was drained swiftly, leaving all twenty of them dead in a haphazard pile of bodies and armor, barely five feet from the small band of travelers.

"_Rukhsul_," Talos commented flippantly. "You were supposed to leave me a few, _namad_."

Ryn sent a mock-annoyed smirk his way and crossed to the orcs. "Search them," she ordered. "There might be something we can use." She pulled on her pair of leather gloves, internally moaning that she'd have to clean them thoroughly again after touching those disgusting creatures with them.

"You're getting better at that," Elof noted, pulling something slimy and brown from the armor vest of a nearby orc. He made a horrified face and tossed whatever it was aside.

Ryn was fairly sure she didn't want to know.

"Your help has been invaluable," she answered, looking curiously at a piece of rough animal skin sporting odd charcoal markings. It looked like it might be some kind of writing, though she'd never seen the like of it before. "Can you Read languages other than Orð, Elof?"

"A couple; mostly only ancient languages," he answered, distracted by retrieving one of Ryn's throwing knives that had found its way into an orc skull. "Why?"

"This," she straightened, holding out the scrap of skin. Elof crossed to her and took it, his brow furrowing as he looked at it in the waning moonlight.

It would be morning soon, Ryn noted dispassionately. The orc ambush had come in the wee hours of the morning, when, she guessed, the orcs thought the Watch would be least alert.

Apparently, none of the orcs had ever travelled with a dwarf. Talos had been far from sluggish and had spotted them long before they anticipated.

Fortunate, for her tiny party.

Her attention was brought back harshly to Elof when he made a disgusted sound and dropped the animal skin. "What?" she asked, alarmed.

"It's Black Speech," he shuddered in response.

Ryn resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Black Speech was rather harsh and guttural, it was true; but it didn't deserve half the terror it was often met with. "So can you read it?"

Elof shook his head. "Never had the courage—or the necessity—to learn it."

Ryn cocked an eyebrow, and the lad tensed defensively. "Language holds power, Ryn. A magic all its own—and the language of Mordor isn't just a collection of sounds and words like Common. It's….it's more like Orð. Orð is a healing language; Black Speech a destroying language. It's difficult to stomach."

Still skeptical, Ryn kept her eyebrow cocked, but looked down, going back to the task of finding something useful to them. "Well, since I doubt it's a letter from home," she guessed. "It's likely some sort of missive. Like a mission brief or something."

"Which could mean this was a deliberate attack rather than a random raid," Talos put in, crossing to her with a couple of dirty—but serviceable—blades. "Here," he handed her one, and Ryn nodded her thanks.

"It could," Elof added thoughtfully. Then he made a face. "That's not terrifying at all."

"It's not so bad," Ryn answered. "If we knew what they were—"

She was cut off by a brutal pain exploding in her shoulder. Vaguely, she heard someone shout her name, also interrupted with a pained gasp.

_Talos_.

She didn't get the chance to feel the terror she knew was welling in her chest though; she felt her knees hit the forest floor, black spots dancing across her vision.

_Poisoned arrow_, she realized faintly. _Wonderful_.

It was the last coherent thought she had.

* * *

_One of the few things in the massive underground city of Erebor that had not been entirely destroyed by the Dragon Smaug's seventy-year residency there had been the Library. The room, while massive, was contained by thick walls and only accessible via several halls that were far too small for the dragon's bulk. The combination of that and Smaug's utter disregard for such things as scrolls and parchments meant the Library had survived with only minimal damage._

_Since becoming King Under the Mountain, Fíli, Son of Dis, had taken the Library on as a personal project; he had scrolls and documents and books of all sorts being delivered from all over Arda; the finest craftsmen working on restoring the old chamber to its former glory; and carpenters from nearby Dale building sturdy shelves to house the new works being delivered to the Mountain nearly every day._

_It was this room that had quickly become one of Ryn's favorites; the rich velvet cushions and roaring fireplace made a comfortable place to read, and the place always smelled of parchment and ink._

_This evening, she was curled up on the thick bearskin rug, poring over an Eiri treatise on Rare and Curious (Master Asmund's words, not hers) Ailments, hoping there might be something about morgul poison in it. Translating Orð into Common was still a bit of a struggle for the lass, even after two months of doing nearly nothing but reading it; but Elof was much quicker and able to help anytime she got stuck._

_He was sitting nearby at the moment, long legs draped over the arm of his plush chair, blue eyes focused on the page before him and black hair falling all askew over his forehead. The Human lad's short crop of hair, lack of beard and much-taller figure made him something of an oddity in Erebor, but most folks had long since stopped chattering about it when it became common knowledge he was assisting the Eiri lass with saving their Prince from a fate worse than death at the hands of the evil Vala, Melkor. His born role as an Eiri Reader meant Elof could translate anything and decode ancient secrets long kept._

_He sighed from his chair, and Ryn looked up. "Find anything?"_

_Elof shook his head, rubbing his eyes hard. "No, sorry. And my head is aching something fierce."_

_Ryn nodded. "We've been at it since midday; we should call it a night. But I ran across something I can't really read, mind helping me with it before we stop?"_

_"Sure," the lad slid off the chair and flopped onto his belly beside the soon-to-be Princess, looking at the swirling runes she pointed to._

_"This one. It says 'stinann sal heilbredae alea,' which I think loosely translates to 'the stone that heals all.' Is there any…"_

_Ryn stopped at the look on Elof's face. He snatched the book from her, eyes wide and jaw slack._

_"What?" she asked, heart beating a little faster._

_"The Umräd," Elof whispered. "Valar, Ryn, you've found a reference to the Umräd."_

_"What is that?"_

_"The Starstone," the lad answered. "It is said to have the ability to purge all darkness from a being. It was fashioned by Estë herself, from the light of the First Star; it is the most powerful of all the Healing Stones."_

_Ryn nodded, struggling to keep up. Elof had told her of the Healing Stones—ten gems, hidden by the Ancient Healers before the demise of their race, that had once been used regularly to heal all manner of ailments._

_"Where is it?" she asked, dreading the answer._

_"Hidden," Elof answered. "Like all the others. But it so happens I know exactly where."_

_Eyes wide, Ryn waited. Elof grinned._

_"It's in Fjallstadr, protected inside the Vault. Fárbjóðr had tasked me with opening the thing, but I always told him I couldn't figure out how."_

_"But you could," Ryn gaped at the young man._

_"I can," he smiled._

* * *

_Rukhsul—_Khuzdul, lit. "Orc dung"

_Namad_—Khuzdul, "sister"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Happy Tuesday, dear readers! Some of you have already noted I'm taking a bit of a different approach with this part of our tale—nice catch! One of my favorite things about writing is that, like all forms of art, it is highly individualized; and beyond that, it's unique not only to the individual, but also to their frame of mind at the time they're writing. All that to say, this is a bolder approach than I've ever taken on a storyline; but then, I'm a bolder person than I was nine months ago when all this started. :D

Special thanks to _summerald_ for everything she does for me—she is a fast friend and an inspiring writer—and I hope you all enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

Fíli, Son of Dis, King Under the Mountain, was fairly certain it had been a very long time since he had been in this sort of position. He gasped for air, flat on his back, the weight of his opponent resting on his chest, unyielding. A thick, sharp axe blade rested on his collarbone and black spots danced before his eyes.

"Surrender, cur," a feminine voice commanded, the blade pressing into his neck a bit.

"_Never_," the King growled, fingers curling around the hilt of his own sword that had fallen when he did. Swiftly, he brought the heavy steel blade up and toward his opponent's neck, intending to sever the creature's head from its shoulders in one powerful sweep.

He hadn't counted on her smaller size and lesser weight being an advantage. His opponent ducked, shifting her weight forward, which pressed the axe even further into his neck; even as she threw one hand up, blocking his swing in a painful chop against the sensitive underside of his wrist. With impossible speed, she gripped his arm and twisted.

His sword hit the stone with a clang.

"_Yield_," she commanded again, a smile pulling at her lips.

Fíli cursed, beaten. "I yield," he stuck his tongue out, for good measure, and the blade was removed from his neck.

Anora laughed as she stood, holding out a hand to assist him. Fíli glowered, taking the proffered boost and yanking hard. Anora fell forward with a little screech, landing on the thick bearskin mat hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Fíli followed up, grabbing his short sword and straddling the warrioress, steel blade centimeters from her neck.

With a playful grin, he crowed in delight. "I have won, foul adversary! Surrender now and I will spare your life!"

Anora giggled. "Never, you villain! You'll have to kill me!"

Fíli laughed outright at that, backing off and helping his friend to her feet. "Well fought, Anora; no one has so roundly defeated me in a long time."

She shook her mane of red hair loose from its braid, grinning. "I had plenty of time to practice while hiding from suitors back home."

Fíli snorted. "I can imagine so." He handed off his swords to a page and offered Anora an arm with an exaggerated bow. She took it with an equally-exaggerated nose in the air, and they began walking back toward the guard mess hall, where they would eat, as was their wont on training days.

"So none of them struck your fancy at _all_?" he asked, referring to the suitors her father had considered during his absence. Anora shook her head.

"Erek was all money and no brains, Jut too full of himself, and Karfac was simply a greasy, leering git. Imbeciles, the lot of them."

"Then why would your father want you to marry them?" Fíli asked, perplexed. He had known Tefur since he was a child; the man had some very different ideas than the sons of Durin, but Fíli had always attributed that simply to the fact that he was from the Iron Hills, and society was very different there.

But Tefur was kind, intelligent, and loved his daughters fiercely. Fíli had a hard time imagining the man wanting vivacious, brilliant Anora caught in an unhappy marriage.

His childhood playmate sighed. "They had _money_, Fíli. Money and connections. That's why lasses are married off in the Iron Hills. It's all political."

Fíli sighed, aware of the Iron Hills' strange marital customs. "What about your Ones?"

"If you're extremely lucky," Anora answered, "your One will be rich and well-connected. If not, well…" she shrugged. "I determined a long time ago I'd end up in a loveless marriage. I would've taken a vow of celibacy altogether to avoid it; except Sêla cannot marry until I do, and I can't do that to her. She has a chance to find her One, maybe even a greater chance here in Erebor; and I would _never_ take that from her."

Fíli had heard of such rules, that the younger could not marry before the elder in the Iron Hills—and some other dwarven communities as well—but had never suspected Tefur clung to those ideals while living under the rule of the Sons of Durin.

"Damn," he muttered, then eyed the lass beside him guiltily. "Sorry."

She snorted. "As if I've never heard cursing, Fíli. I grew up with you, did I not?" He laughed heartily.

"Indeed you did. So what are you going to do, then? About marriage, I mean?"

Anora grinned. "Well my parents currently have their eye set on a very specific dwarf for me, and are shoving me at him almost constantly."

_Huh_. "But you do not love him?" Fíli asked.

"On the contrary," she answered. "I love him quite dearly, just not in the way I would love a husband." She shrugged. "Besides, it is the very same lad Sêla is quite in love with; and while I will gladly marry one I do not love to open the way for my sister to find happiness, I'll not marry _her_ One."

Fíli pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the tug in his chest at the mention of Sêla loving some unknown lad. "Sounds like a pretty kettle of fish, Anora."

Her hazel eyes clouded, all traces of amusement gone. "It is."

"So what are you going to do?"

Anora stopped, looked at him. "I'm not sure yet. All I know is I'll not be marrying the lad."

Fíli nodded, squeezing her against his side in a quick one-armed hug. "If there's anything I can do, you let me know, hear?"

He looked over in time to catch his friend roll her eyes.

* * *

Ryn groaned as she teetered on the edge of consciousness, fighting back the dark that beckoned behind her eyelids temptingly.

_Mahal_, her entire right side hurt.

As she fought her way to wakefulness, she heard the crackling of a fire and realized she was lying on her belly, warm and mostly-comfortable. It was an odd contrast to the lingering sense of danger that lurked in the corners of her mind. Forcing her eyes open, Ryn blinked against the bright sun that filtered through the trees—sunrise or sunset? She couldn't tell.

"Welcome back," a young, familiar voice greeted her. She turned her head, wincing against the pain, just enough to see her brother sitting beside the fire, roasting something on a spit. It smelled delightful, but Ryn's stomach couldn't seem to decide if it was hungry or disgusted, turning over in a most uncomfortable manner. She groaned.

"Thanks. What happened?"

"You took a poisoned arrow to the shoulder." Talos said it casually, but his voice caught a bit, and she felt her heart hitch. "I patched you up, and your body took care of the rest."

"How long?" she asked.

"Almost two days. The attack happened yesterday morning, and the sun is setting now," he answered, coming over and peeling away the bandages on her back. Ryn gasped in agony as his fingers brushed her skin. "How do you feel?"

"It hurts," she answered through gritted teeth. "Where did the arrow come from? We beat the last wave of those things…"

"We _thought_ we did," Talos answered, probing gently at her shoulder. "There were more."

"_Rukhsul_." Ryn struggled to turn over and see her brother, locate Elof and assess his state, moaning in pain. "Are you all right? Elof?"

"I'm fine," Talos hastened to assure her, pushing her down gently. "Stay still."

He hadn't answered her question, the fact didn't pass Ryn's notice. "Talos, where's Elof?"

Silence.

"_Where is he_?" she asked again, panic seizing her heart. She had grown pretty fond of the lad; not to mention their mission was doomed to failure without him….

"He was taken," Talos answered, softly. "I tried to stop them, Ryn, I really did; they knocked me out before I could reach him."

Ryn closed her eyes, trying not to give in to the icy grasp of terror, deliberately breathing slowly and willing her racing heart to calm.

Elof had been captured. By orcs.

Was it a random band, or a group sent by Melkor?

Some other enemy they weren't yet aware of?

How far had they gotten?

How many were there?

Was Elof alive? Injured? Ill?

Ryn shook her head, resting her forehead on her arms. It would be all right; this wasn't the first time she'd tracked a party of orcs. A sudden grin tugged at her lips, remembering the Quest, when she'd deliberately misled an entire war party of orcs; sending them on a trail that led to absolutely nothing while she and the other dwarves made it to the relative safety of the High Pass….

"It is all right, _nadadith_," she lifted her head and looked at her younger brother, who was looking ashamed as he picked the meat off the spit, placing some on a tin plate for her. "We'll just have to find him." She pushed with her arms, attempting to get her knees under her and breathing slowly through the agony that shot through her shoulder and back.

"Ryn, wait—" Talos started, but she glared hard at him.

"They have too much of a lead already," she interrupted. She was on her hands and knees now; and she sat back on her heels, letting the dizziness from the pain pass before she attempted to stand. "Give me a moment, and I'll be able to heal whatever is left of the damage to my shoulder, then I'm going to look you over as well." She put up a finger before Talos could open his mouth to protest. "No arguments. Aside from the fact I'm not letting you suffer when it's entirely unnecessary; I also _need_ you fresh and healthy. This is going to be a rigorous chase, brother."

Talos said nothing to that, just saluted her with his venison and began banking the fire. Ryn was grateful, and closed her eyes, reaching for the life force of the surrounding vegetation. With a moment's concentration, she was able to glean enough from the forest to heal herself without damaging any of the plants. The pain disappeared, her pounding head calmed, and she felt as though she'd just awakened from a lovely night's sleep.

Ryn smiled and turned her attention to her brother, using her Sense to assess his condition. True to his word, he was well; she used a small amount of magic to soothe the lingering ache in his head from the mild concussion he'd received. Her brother sighed in relief, turning to look at her.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Ryn's grin turned feral. "Ready?" Talos responded by hefting his axes and nodding.

"Let's hunt some orc."

* * *

"_It did not strike you as strange?"_

_The question gave Kíli pause, helped him understand why his Intended seemed so very frightened of him right now. He tilted his head, brown eyes meeting her green ones._

"_No," he answered. "It did not strike me as strange that I could sense when you were in trouble. Ryn…Eiri or not, half dwarf or not, we love one another deeply. I can often sense when Fíli is hurting or in a bad situation…it's more intuition than anything. Not quite as physical as what you're telling me we now have; but not much different."_

_Ryn was staring at him, wide-eyed. "You're not angry?"_

_Kíli shook his head, moving closer to her and brushing his fingertips over the soft skin of her neck. She didn't quite succeed in suppressing a shiver, and he smiled._

"_No, my love. I'm not angry."_

_The sigh of relief that escaped her before she could stop it would have put a halt to any rage Kíli had felt, if he had felt any. His poor lass had clearly been worried sick about this._

"_Ryn, have I ever given you any need to fear me?" he wondered aloud. She shook her head._

"_No, of course not. But I have…made so many mistakes, with this, with _us_," she gestured between them, eyes wide and searching Kili's own. "I meant to tell you all about the Love-Bind before we ever initiated it; but things just got…out of hand that day by the creek, and then everything sort of fell apart after that—"_

_Kíli cut her off with a tender kiss. She responded with a whimper that made his breath hitch, and he pulled her close._

"_I'll tell you what I do want," he murmured in her ear, nibbling the lobe and chuckling when she shuddered in response._

"_What's that?"_

"_I'd really like to explore this connection, now that I know it's there." He pressed his lips to hers firmly, burying his fingers in her hair and pulling her flush against him—a move guaranteed to make her knees go weak. Sure enough, in addition to his own jolt of arousal, he felt a faint shakiness in his legs. Splaying his hand across the small of Ryn's back, he nearly whined in ecstasy when she bit his lip and scratched his scalp. _

_She gasped, and he grinned. So it went both ways._

_Oh, this Eiri Bind was definitely one of his new favorite parts of his Beloved's slightly-different physiology. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Hello all, happy Hump Day! Hey, if any of you are Supernatural fans, I also have a SPN fic up called _The Ties That Bind_, and an accompanying set of oneshots called _Come Whatever_. Check them out if you like sibling fluff! And badassery! And crazy plot twists! You know, all that _stuff_.

Special thanks to **summerald** and **Cassandrala** for their help with this (abnormally difficult) chapter! Also, shout outs to **drwatsonn** (_I'm so sorry in advance_) and **Eternal Cosmic Sailor Saturn** (welcome to the family!)…

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Fifteen Years Ago**_

"_Mama, Mama!" the rumpled five-year-old appeared at the pretty woman's side, burying his dirty hands in her skirts and tugging insistently. She turned from her conversation with the baker, laughing blue eyes landing on her son. Maera shook her head._

"_Elof, you rascal. What have you gotten into, lad?" she bent down and inspected the boy's dirty hands and face, tousled black hair, and scratched elbow. He favored her with a brilliant smile._

"_Théo and me found a frog!" he exclaimed, eyes alight with excitement. "It was lumpy and brown and made funny noises!"_

_Maera nodded, wiping her son's face with her apron, pleased that he was exploring. An understanding of nature, specifically animals, was central to Rohir society; and what better way to learn of it than to experience it firsthand?_

"_Did you try to catch it?" she asked._

"_No!" Elof looked horrified at the thought, and Maera felt her heart warm. Good boy. "We followed it to its home!"_

"_And where did it live, son?" Maera frowned at Elof's elbow, spitting on her apron to clean the dirt from the wound. Elof twitched, but didn't pull away._

"_A tree stump! But then it didn't come back out, so I came to find you."_

"_So now you know that some frogs live in fallen trees," Maera summed up. "That's very good. We can tell your father all about it tonight at dinner, yes?" Elof nodded excitedly. _

"_And can we tell him about the words on the stone too?"_

_Maera took her bread and paid the baker with a warm smile. "Thank you, Master Eadric. What stone, éafora?"_

"_The one in the big square!" her young one replied, jumping about with unsuppressed energy. Maera tried to understand what the boy was talking about; the only stone in the Central Square of Edoras was an ancient memorial to the great King Eorl the Young, first ruler of Rohan. She knew what the stone said—most Rohir did—though she'd never read it. No one save the royals could, since no one else spoke or read ancient Adûnaic anymore._

"_Who told you what the Memorial says?" she asked, curious._

_Elof stopped hopping from puddle to puddle and looked up at her, tilting his head in that adorable way he did when something confused him._

"_Nobody," he answered. "I just knowed."_

"_Knew," she corrected instinctively, now supremely perplexed. "Knew," Elof repeated obediently. "I just knew."_

"_How?"_

_The boy shrugged, kicking a pebble at his feet. "Like I know the sun is warm and…like I know I love you. I just….know."_

_Maera wasn't sure how that was possible—Elof couldn't even read Common yet, much less a forgotten Language. "Show me," she ordered._

_Elof dashed ahead, as if eager to share his newfound ability with her. They reached the Square and she followed him to the large Memorial Stone, smacking Elof's fingers where they traced over the engraved letters._

"_Do not touch the Memorial, éafora. Now, what does this word say?"_

_She pointed at the word at her son's eye level—she knew from her memorization it was the word 'courageous'—and waited._

"_Brave," Elof answered. "Well, courageous. But that means brave, right?"_

_Maera blinked. How was it possible? How could he…?_

"_I can read the whole thing!" Elof exclaimed excitedly. "It says 'King Eorl the Young, the Father of our Nation, who reigned as our courageous king until his death in 2545. His memory shall never be lost.'" Elof looked up at her, eyes wide. "I remember you told me about King Eorl, Mama. He was very strong and brave and rode a mighty horse lord named Aldor!"_

_Maera nodded vaguely, still confused. "Indeed he did, my son." This mystery was a question for her husband—perhaps he would have an explanation as to why the boy was reading Adûnaic before he could read Common; so she took Elof's hand._

"_Come on, let's go home. You did very well today, perhaps we will have sweet dumplings with dinner tonight."_

_Elof began hopping again, his five-year-old energy practically limitless, and Maera held back a grin. They walked out of town together, back toward their farm just outside Edoras, her young son singing a battle-song he had recently learned from his Papa._

_She did not see the cloaked figure sitting quietly in the shadows at the edge of the Square, witnessing her interaction with her son, ice-blue eyes bright with interest. Bloodless lips curled into a smile as they left the town gates behind._

* * *

"_The Oath draws from the individual strengths of each of the Oath Holders; therefore, the more dwarves that participate in the Oath, the stronger the bond. The largest recorded Oath contained 147 warriors of the Line of Durin during the Great War. Its members were so powerful that not one of them died in the entirety of the War, despite being hopelessly outnumbered in the…."_

Kíli sighed and skimmed over the seemingly-endless paragraph, looking for more practical information on the Oath itself. He didn't care about statistics or history, really; he needed to know how to use the bond created by the Oath. He needed to know if there was a way to utilize it that he was unaware of; maybe something that could hold off Melkor, lend him some sort of inner strength he seemed to be lacking.

"Trouble finding something?" came a raspy, gruff voice behind him. Kíli tensed, startled, but relaxed when he turned to see the old and wrinkled librarian smiling at him. Master Kâf had been one of the oldsters who had accompanied them from the Blue Mountains, appointed specifically by Fíli as the Royal Tomeskeeper and Historian. He was a patient soul, fatherly in a very…_Balin_ sort of way; Kíli had appreciated his steadiness on the journey here.

"I'm surprised you even want to be near me," he half-joked. Kâf's daughter had nearly been killed by mewlips while trying to get a small group of dwarflings to safety during an attack.

The Tomeskeeper smiled wider. "Cursed blood or not, lad; it was not your sword that cut my Leifa. It was, however, your arms that carried her from the battle and your Beloved who saved her life." He placed his hand on his heart in a gesture of respect. "You forever have my loyalty, young Prince of Durin. None of this is your fault, you need to remember that."

Kíli flushed, fidgeted. "I'm not entirely sure that is true, Master Kâf."

"Well I am, and I've lived many long years more than you have." Kâf put a hand on the lad's shoulder. "I know these things." Changing the subject, Kâf continued. "Have you heard from your Bride? I heard she spirited her brother and that abnormally-tall human away on some secret mission a few weeks ago."

Kíli stifled a laugh at the description of Ryn's motley band, but sobered at the actual answer. "I have heard only that they are travelling as quickly as they can. The weather has been favorable toward their mission, which is helpful; but they're likely to be gone for another several weeks at least."

_Mahal_, he missed his lass.

Kâf seemed to understand that much without Kíli saying a word about it, because he slapped the young Prince on the shoulder. "She is strong, lad. And so are her companions. Well—" he amended himself. "Her brother is strong, the human is smart. They'll be all right."

Kíli nodded.

"But that's not why you're here, is it?" Kâf winked. "What can I help you find, my Prince?"

"Do you know anything about the Oath of Belhel?" he asked after a moment. They had kept the Oath under wraps as much as possible, but what had he to lose at this point? Most everyone knew of his curse, and though it was less well-known, many were aware of his bond with the six others who had sworn to protect him until Melkor's plans for him were derailed completely.

Kâf smiled knowingly. "You mean what do I know that's not already in that massive tome you're looking at?"

Kíli cocked a grin. "Yes, that."

"Well," the old dwarf made himself comfortable beside the Prince. "Here's what I do know…"

* * *

Ryn had had to track some rather difficult characters in her life. During her time with the Rangers, she'd learned to trail creatures ranging from hares to elves. Every bent leaf, broken twig, impression in wet dirt or sand was an indication, and she knew how to read the story of a being's route regardless of how good they were at forestcraft. Some of the best elves could outsmart her during at the end of her training, but even her best friend and toughest critic Aran had acknowledged her talent at tracking.

Which was why hunting this pack of orcs—Ryn guessed there were about a dozen of them—was shamefully easy. They left filth and death wherever they went, not even attempting to hide their trail.

_Their mistake._

Talos kept up with his sister easily, falling into a guard role while she focused completely on tracking—she'd never admit it, but it made her job that much easier, not having to concentrate on everything at once.

Even still, it took the dwarves three days to get the orc pack in their sights. It was coming up on sunset the third day when Talos spotted the smoke from their camp just to the northwest, headed toward the distant Misty Mountains.

"Oh no you don't," Ryn muttered to herself, fingering _Naryaturë's _hilt distractedly. Then she turned to Talos. "We're too far for me to use my magic just yet. The pack will be moving at dusk, are you good to keep up with them overnight?"

Both siblings were exhausted, having been adhering to a strict hunt for twenty hours, sleep for four schedule. Talos nodded, but his slight hesitation wasn't lost on Ryn; she transferred enough energy from a nearby oak to keep him alert and running until the next morning. Talos shivered as she completed the transfer. "I'll never get used to that," he grumbled.

Ryn smiled. "As soon as they settle down in the morning, I'll take out the orcs using my power from the cover of the trees. Then we nab Elof and make for the Anduin. The elves of Lorien will assist us if necessary."

"Ryn, the Anduin is five days' journey from here, and that's on horseback," Talos countered. "Dol Guldur practically stands between us and the river!"

"We can maintain this pace for a few more days until we reach safety," Ryn answered. "We will make it."

Talos didn't seem convinced, but said nothing. Ryn took a moment to fill her own reserves of energy, then shook off the dizzy feeling it left behind and motioned for Talos to follow her.

The orcs ran through the night, and the siblings were hard-pressed to maintain their position; but neither of them were about to lose Elof to these monsters.

And so they ran too.

The orcs made camp just before dawn, in a small copse of trees on the very southern border of Mirkwood. Ryn and Talos climbed a massive oak and rested in its thick branches.

Ryn fell into her Magic while Talos caught his breath, searching for the energies she would need to steal—orcs were dark and dirty, slimy, like rotting things. Ryn tried to isolate Elof's scarlet aura, but couldn't seem to find it.

Ryn blinked, confused, and tried again. There were twelve nasty orcs, she could sense every one of their repugnant auras; there were the trees, green and vibrant; a little rabbit burrowing as far from the monsters outside as possible; there was Talos' brilliant silver, pulsing with life and energy…

But no crimson human auras.

_No._

Tears stung her eyes—the only reason Elof's energy would not be with the orcs would be…if they…if he…_no_.

The word resonated in her head like the clang of an anvil.

_Dead._

* * *

_Éafora-_"son"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Good morning! Tried to get this up yesterday, but my day just got away from me, so you get it first thing this morning instead.

Special thanks to **summerald** and **Cassandrala** for being awesome writing buddies! Shout outs also to **Eruwaedhiel95** (happy to see you over here! Hope the story meets your expectations!) and **drwatsonn** (told you I was sorry….but maybe this chapter will make up for it a little?) for their awesome reviews! You guys rock!

Enjoy!

* * *

_No. It's not possible._

"What, Ryn?" Talos' voice came to her from far away, it seemed.

_It can't be._

A hand on her shoulder, shaking firmly. Her gaze snapped back to her brother, wide and searching. "Ryn!" he hissed. "What's the problem?"

"Elof," she whispered, stifling the panic that clawed through her chest. "I can't find him among them."

Talos blinked. "What?"

She nodded. "I should be able to isolate his aura, so I don't accidentally kill him along with them; but he's not there. The only way…I can't…Talos, they must have—"

Her brother shushed her. "No, there's got to be another explanation. We _need_ him."

"I know," she breathed deeply, letting her fear transmute into rage, hot and bitter. It curled in her chest; demanding movement, action, the compulsion to do _something_.

"Rye?" Talos gripped her shoulder tight as her nostrils flared. The childhood nickname reached her, even through the haze of fury, and she turned to him. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find out what they've done with him," she growled, dangerously. Without waiting for his response, Ryn dropped silently from the oak branch, ignoring her brother's half-whispered objections. She walked toward the orcs' encampment, gripping their slimy auras tightly and yanking, sending the extra energy into the forest. It rippled around her, but she barely noticed as she entered the clearing, facing down the one brute she'd left alive. The others twitched on the ground, freshly dead, and the one standing was turning in a confused circle before catching sight of her with a growl.

Ryn heard Talos stomping along behind her, muttering incoherently, but couldn't be bothered to care that she'd upset him.

She had to figure out what was going on here. No tracks had taken off from the orc party's trail; but nor had there been any human blood along the way, no sign that Elof had been tortured, killed, or eaten. It made no sense, and now they had one of her friends.

Ryn wouldn't stand for it.

She reached the orc, who had charged her with his thick blade and swiped for her head. Ryn made no move to draw Naryaturë, completely unsurprised when Talos' axe intercepted the orc sword's arc and stopped it mere inches from her neck. Stopping her advance to give Talos room to work, Ryn refrained from interfering, knowing her brother had this well in hand.

Sure enough, it was less than a minute before the dwarf lad had the orc on his knees before Ryn, twin axes resting on its deformed collarbone. The creature panted for a moment, but didn't even wait for her to ask a question before its lips curled upward in a nasty smile.

Green eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

"Where is who?" the orc asked, still smiling.

Ryn just stared at him, Talos just held the blades steady. His smile never faltered, though sweat began to bead on his forehead in reaction to the deep thigh gash Talos had gifted him with during their brief scuffle. As was typical of his kind, the orc didn't stay silent long, resorting instead to gloating.

As Ryn knew he would.

"You'll never win against us," he laughed. "We are too many, too powerful. Your friend, the human? He is far away by now, helpless against the power that holds him."

"But he is alive." It wasn't a question, and Ryn allowed a bit of triumph to show in her expression.

The orc simply snorted. "If you can call it that."

Ryn nodded to Talos, who pressed on the skin of the creature's neck with one sharp blade in a wordless threat. "Tell me how to reach him."

A half-mad giggle. It sounded obscene coming from such a monster. "My Master is holding him in Dol Guldur."

Ryn scoffed, fingering one of her throwing knives idly. "A bit predictable, don't you think, Talos?"

"Indeed," her brother responded.

"It makes no difference!" the orc barked. "It matters not if you know where He is; you cannot face him—and facing him is the only way you'll ever see your friend again." Another demented laugh. "Of course, if you're foolish enough to try _that_, you'll not have long left to live…and then what will become of your lover, Bastard Dwarf? Your poor, cursed sweetheart; you can't save him when you're dead—"

With no warning at all, Ryn turned and plunged her throwing knife deep into the creature's shoulder. Not needing any direction, Talos utilized its momentary incapacitation to tie the creature tightly to the tree at its back.

"I suppose you'll never know," Ryn growled, reaching forward and yanking her knife out of the orc's flesh, none too gently. "Talos."

Then she turned and walked away. Her brother stared after her for barely a moment, then back to the orc, before following.

* * *

All things considered, Talos hadn't really known his sister for very long. They'd been separated when he was barely seven summers old, and had been reunited not half a year ago: almost eight years together out of the near-ninety she'd been alive wasn't very long, really.

That said, their bond continued to amaze him. They hadn't had much _time_ together, perhaps, but he could usually tell what she was thinking, what she was going to do before she did it. They didn't always communicate well—like when Ryn simply charged ahead into the orc camp without waiting for him—but it had been instinct that had her standing stock still as the remaining brute had swung for her exposed neck, as if she knew he was already halfway to blocking the sword meant to end her life.

It had been instinct that told him to let her do the questioning.

And it had been instinct that moved his hands to tie up their captive when she was clearly done with him. Normally, he'd have beheaded the creature; but first rule of interrogation was to present a unified front.

Which was why he was currently running after his sister, wondering why she'd left it alive and restrained by simple leather ties—which it would doubtless break in less than a day. He knew she was upset about Elof—and they needed a plan about that, Talos was pretty sure she was intending to go to Dol Guldur and confront Melkor himself to get the Reader back—but her actions were becoming erratic, unpredictable.

And it worried him.

"Ryn?" he caught up to her splashing water on her face from the icy forest creek. She looked up and gave him a cursory nod.

"Are you ready to go?"

"What?" he asked. "Go where? Do what? I don't know what we're doing, here, Rye; you won't tell me anything, you're just charging ahead with no plan! At least, not one you're communicating!"

His sister paused before wiping the water off her face with a sleeve, seeming to take the chance to hide for a moment. "I know," she answered softly. With a sigh, she stood and faced him. "I'm sorry, it must be really frustrating for you. But Melkor, he's figuring me out, Talos." Her expression was nearly pleading. "He seems to know what I'm going to do, how I'm going to react, who I'm willing to walk into the fire for, and He's _using_ it."

Talos could see his sister's logic, and where this path was going, and he braced himself for a fight.

Because _no_. He was _not_ letting her do this.

"I can't afford to be who I normally am right now, _nadadith_. If we're going to beat this, I have to be unreliable, inconsistent. I have to make moves I normally wouldn't; do things I'd never do."

"Like leave that orc alive?"

She nodded. "That's partially why I did it. He'll get loose and then limp back to his…_comrades_…pass on what we did here. They're used to me slaughtering them; they'll have no idea what to do with that information. Besides," here she gave him a grim smile that had absolutely no warmth behind it. "Do you know what orc chiefs do to stragglers that survive confrontations like the one we just had?" When he shook his head, she nodded. "Believe me, killing him would've been a mercy."

Talos had to give it to her; it was actually a smart move. "All right, I can understand that. But what about the whole solo act, running in there without consulting me? And what are we going to do about Elof?"

A slight pause. "You mean 'me'. Not 'we'."

Here it came. Talos let his eyes narrow.

"No, I mean _we_."

"Talos, I am _not_ dragging you to Dol Guldur to face the most powerful enemy Middle Earth has ever fought with nothing but me by your side. Even if it is only a _portion_ of his spirit."

Mahal, his sister could be dim sometimes. "And _I'm_ not letting you go to Dol Guldur alone to face the most powerful enemy Middle Earth has ever fought with _nothing_ by your side."

Ryn glared, matching green eyes unblinking, both sets stubbornly refusing to give. "Talos—"

"Rye."

"We're not doing this."

"We _are_ doing this. You're not going alone, _namad_. It's a guaranteed failure—Melkor can kill you with but a thought—and then where would we all be?"

Ryn looked uncomfortable, but unconvinced. "I'll have to manage. I won't fail, Talos, there's too much at stake."

He rolled his eyes, knowing it would both incense her and force her to evaluate his logic. "If sheer willpower was all that was required to dispatch Melkor, sister, I'd have no doubt of your ability to do so. But it's not that simple. Besides—" he interrupted her angry spluttering, "what were you just saying about doing the unpredictable thing?"

She stared at him, betrayal flickering across her features at his turning her own logic against her.

"He'll never expect you to bring along anyone you care about," Talos finished, letting the truth of it sink in. Ryn seemed to be considering—and hating herself for it.

"If you don't let me come," Talos delivered the final blow in his case. "I'll just follow you. Which option is less likely to get me killed?"

He saw her think through it, saw her conclude he was right, saw the despair cross her face, quickly masked. Taking pity on the lass, Talos drew her close and pressed their foreheads together. "It will be all right, Rye."

"I lost you once—" she started, but he put a finger to her lips to shush her.

"I know. I lost you too, remember?" She nodded slightly, closing her eyes to mask the emotion in them. "We're stronger together, _namad_."

"Yes."

Talos kissed his sister's brow, then drew back with a smirk. "Ready?"

A fierce light sparked in her eyes, and she nodded.

* * *

Fíli growled with frustration—a small, soft sound—when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. This quiet overlook on the east side of the Lonely Mountain was the single most isolated place he had discovered here; even his private chambers, with their guards and maids and messengers running to and fro, weren't this silent. Here, he could be alone and really think.

It was a beautiful place, too. The small foothills surrounding Erebor eased into the flat expanse of the plains that sat between them and the Iron Hills, the long grasses waving hypnotically in the late autumn wind. The sun was setting behind the mountain at his back, and it sent long shadows for miles in that direction; but where the sun was, the plains were golden and stretched as far as his eye could see. The horizon met the darkening sky far away, clouds reflecting the pink and gold of sunset.

But now, evidently, his secret spot wasn't so secret. Fíli sighed.

"Oh!" the soft exclamation reached his ears, and his sigh turned to a smile. He turned to face Sêla in time to see her trying to retreat and curtsey at the same time. The result was a clumsy dip followed by her legs tangling as she nearly fell backward the way she came. Laughing, Fíli caught her hand and pulled her back upright.

"Hello," he greeted with a grin. Her blue eyes were wide, freckles standing out on her pale face even as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"F-Fíli," she stuttered. He may have finally convinced her not to call him "Your Highness", but the lass still seemed abnormally uncomfortable around him; had ever since they'd returned to Erebor. He couldn't figure out why; he made it a point to be as Fíli-like as possible with her, behaving more like himself than the King Under the Mountain when she or her sister were near. Their friendship was important to him, and he would do anything to maintain it. But Sêla seemed to be slipping away.

The thought hurt more than he figured was warranted. Fíli shook himself internally as he set the lass back on her feet, smile fixed. "You found me," he said.

"Evidently I did," she laughed a little. "I was exploring, I'm sorry to have interrupted your peace…"

"Not at all," Fíli answered. "You're neither a guard nor a councilor; your company is welcome, believe me."

She turned out to the overlook with a more genuine smile. "I'm glad. This is a lovely spot."

Fíli turned back too, and they stood in companionable silence for a few minutes. "So you were exploring?" Fíli asked, curious about her insight on the massive underground city of their forefathers.

She turned back to him, eyes sparkling. "Oh yes. I figure I should know everything I can about my new home—though I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever have the whole thing mapped out in my head. It's so beautiful, though!" She launched into a detailed description of the upper quarter that she'd been walking through just before reaching his overlook, much to Fíli's delight. Cheeks flushed, that look in her eye, the one he'd always known as children meant they were about to embark on an adventure—he loved this side of her, loved that he still got to see it once she forgot that he was Fíli the King and just let him be her Fíli.

The young King blinked. _Her_ Fíli? He shook himself.

_She's in love with another,_ his mind supplied unhelpfully.

"—and the pillars, Fee! Have you ever noticed the intricate carvings at the bases and tops? That geometric pattern inset with gems?" She traced the pattern in the air with her finger by way of example. "It's really quite something. The amount of detail they put into this city is simply stunning."

"It is impressive," he agreed. She turned those brilliant azure eyes on him, and Fíli felt his heart stutter.

_Damn_.

"Does it feel like home?" she asked, softly. He tilted his head, considering.

"Now it does," he answered after a moment. "With Kíli home safe, and Mother here…not to mention you and Anora? Yes, it's beginning to feel like home."

Sêla's smile was dazzling. "Good."

With a grin, Fíli held his arm out. "Please; do me the honor of allowing me to accompany you on your exploration, my lady. May I?"

Sêla hesitated, and Fíli almost kicked himself for suggesting it. But before he could laugh it off as a joke, she took his arm with a nod.

"Please, my lord, you are welcome to."

He couldn't deny, even to himself, the way he held his head just a little higher as they made their way back into the Mountain.

Her smile just made it that much better.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Greetings, friends! I apologize for not posting last week—had some serious wrinkles in the storyline that had to be ironed out, and it took a few days to get it all straight. But it's working again, and I'm back with a relatively long chapter to make up for missing a week!

Also, welcome to the several new readers I saw in my inbox in the past few days! Can't wait to hear from you sometime, should you be so inclined!

Cheers to _Celebrisweth_, _drwatsonn_ (fear not, more Elof is coming as quick as I can manage it!), _miller330_ (heh, here you go with the Fili/Sela awkwardness), _Eruwaedhiel95_, and _Elise_ (because I can't PM you: I too, love the whole sibling thing with Ryn and Talos, and in regards to Sela/Fili—ugh, I never did like that kind of nonsense, so no, there'll be none of that. Also, I see you over there sayin' 'idjit' and stuff—fellow SPN fan?) for their awesome reviews, and of course, special thanks to _summerald_ and _Cassandrala_ for their proofing and constant encouragement! My ladies! *hugs all around*

Enjoy!

* * *

Anora didn't bother to hide her grin as she caught sight of her sister approaching, arm looped loosely through the crook of Fíli's elbow, laughing at something he had said. The lad was looking at her sister, his blue eyes alight with amusement, hand over hers on his forearm.

They made quite the picture.

"What is _she_ doing with him?" Anora jumped as her father's voice came from just over her shoulder. She forced a smile and placed a hand over her heart.

"Papa, you startled me!" she laughed.

Her father didn't smile, acknowledging her instead with a hand on her shoulder.

"What is your sister doing with the King?"

"Aw, papa," Anora hurried to assure him. Her parents needed to not interfere with this—getting these two to figure out they were meant to be together was going to be difficult enough without their tampering with her plan. "They grew up together, they're just reminiscing a bit. Probably ran into one another in the Market or something." She kissed his cheek and turned to walk away, hoping to draw her father along with her.

He stayed where he was, watching Sêla carefully.

"Anora," he said, using that deep tone she recognized as finality—Papa was laying down the law. Anora didn't turn around, afraid her face would betray her. "You'd best accelerate your plans for hooking young Fíli before your sister beats you to it."

_Oh Papa, I'm counting on it._

"Yes sir," was all she said, a pit in her stomach at the idea.

How was she going to deal with this? Sêla couldn't marry without her parents' approval, but they were so entirely closed off to the idea of her with Fíli—and every day that passed, Anora feared, made it even less of a possibility that she'd be able to talk them around to it.

_Blasted marriage customs…_

If anyone could garner an exception from her stubborn parents, though, Anora figured it was the most powerful dwarf in all the Seven Kingdoms.

It _had_ to be.

Sighing, she left the room in a swish of skirts, making her way slowly toward the front door to go interrupt her sister's talk with Fíli. Silently, she apologized to them both as she left the family chambers and pasted a smile on.

She needn't have worried. Fíli caught sight of her first; his face split in a grin and he waved her over. Sêla was talking animatedly when Anora got within earshot, telling Fíli something about her sister and mewlips.

"—you should have seen her, Fee, she and Lady Ryn saved that dwarrowdam and her two young sons without any trouble at all. Kíli will tell you if you don't—oh hello, Anora! I was just telling Fíli about the journey here."

"She was," Fíli said. "You never mentioned you're a hero in your own right already. Though I'm hardly surprised." He favored her with a proud smile, and Anora felt a blush creep up both sides of her neck.

"Yes well, it didn't feel right to boast about such things."

Fíli laughed. "Hardly. I have seen your prowess firsthand, Anora, and it's obvious you're good under pressure—I've heard it now from several folks, including my own brother—and I actually was hoping to run into you today."

She looked up at Fíli, eyes wide. "Oh?"

They were both grinning like idiots, and Anora stuffed down the desire to stick out her tongue at them for being so blasted secretive. "What?"

"There's a vacancy in the King's Guard," Fíli said, and Anora felt her heart stutter.

Was he—?

"Would you like to fill it?"

Oh, he _was_.

"Uh—" was the most dignified thing she could muster for a moment. A myriad of statements—facts, hopes, fears—swirled through her head, not letting her hang onto any one coherent thought:

_Ma and Papa will never allow it._

_They'll immediately know Fíli isn't considering me for his Queen if I tell them._

_Could I keep such a thing secret?_

_The King's Guard…it's exactly what I've always wanted._

_It's an incredible opportunity._

_I could even help keep Sêla safe once she and Fíli…figure themselves out._

_I should say yes._

_I can't._

_Can I?_

"Anora?" it was her sister's voice that eventually punched through the maelstrom in her head. Her gaze snapped to Sêla's, green meeting hazel and speaking volumes, the way only siblings can. Sêla was studying her, trying to understand her reticence—Anora saw the realization dawn a moment later.

"Anora, no," she started. "You have to make this decision for yourself. This is _Erebor_, not the Iron Hills. You have the right to decide here. And Fíli and I will _both_ back you up."

"Ladies?" Fíli asked, looking between the two, confused.

"Anora is concerned about our parents disapproving of the arrangement," Sêla turned to their childhood friend. "They're rather hoping for a match between the two of you, and obviously, if she is in the King's Guard, you're not—"

Sêla shut her mouth when Fíli gasped and stared hard at her.

Anora wanted to smack herself in the forehead with her palm. She knew _exactly_ what was running through Fíli's golden head:

_"Well my parents currently have their eye set on a very specific dwarf for me, and are shoving me at him almost constantly."_

_"But you do not love him?" _

"_It is the very same lad Sêla is quite in love with…I'll not marry her One."_

Sêla's eyes were wide and questioning, shifting between Fíli and her sister, seeming to realize she'd just said something she oughtn't have, but not knowing what.

"A—Anora?" she stammered.

_Oh, Sêla._

* * *

Not for the first time, Ryn cursed the unnatural stillness of Mirkwood forest. It was too quiet here to mask the sounds of her and Talos' travels, making them prime targets for any predator that relied on hearing to target prey.

Which meant spiders. They'd tangled with the beasts twice yesterday alone, barely escaping with their lives both times, in spite of Ryn's magic and Talos' talent with an axe. The spiders here, in the very southernmost parts of the massive forest, were larger and bolder than the ones Thranduil's folk kept at bay, all those hundreds of leagues away.

But the silence had its benefits—the foremost being that the ability to track via sound was not exclusive. She heard their next threat long before she saw them.

Ryn put a hand up, a gesture to halt, and Talos stopped without question. Listening carefully, she reached out with her magic—sure enough, a party of orcs not fifty paces ahead. The only reason they'd not been spotted yet was because of the thick forest underbrush, Ryn was sure. She breathed a sigh of relief that quickly became a sigh of frustration.

This was a larger party—nearly forty orcs, and they weren't the tiny, gaunt goblins of the Misty Mountains; they were—they were—

Ryn nearly choked as she realized what she was seeing.

Their auras were a bit different than those of their smaller brethren she'd run into before—hints of dark crimson swirled about the usual filthy charcoal of the Mountain orcs. She had heard of such creatures, but had never had any reason to believe they were anything but tall tales.

She hated that she'd obviously been wrong.

"By the Valar," she whispered weakly. Talos squeezed her forearm, and she turned back to him, gesturing for them to go around.

If these creatures were what she thought, they were going to be much more of a threat than forty smaller orcs—and forty orcs of any size were a substantial threat already. Talos grimaced at her—he hated turning away from a fight, and it made her nearly grin—and followed her.

She began running the moment they were out of earshot of the creatures, and didn't quit until they were well beyond a league away. She led Talos up a large oak—he was getting quicker and quieter at climbing, much to her delight—and cast about for any presences in the area.

There were none, and finally, she breathed easier.

"Ryn, what was that?" Talos hissed, still displeased.

She shuddered. "Those, _nadadith_, were _orchadân."_

Talos gasped. "Orc-men? I thought they were legends!"

"Evidently not, we just nearly ran headlong into several dozen of them."

"_Mahal_," he groaned. "As if Men and Orcs aren't horrible enough on their own…"

"Easy now," Ryn snorted. "I'm half of the Race of Men."

"Yes well, there are exceptions to every rule, _namad_."

Ryn huffed her slight amusement. "Indeed there are. Come on; if we hurry, we can make Dol Guldur by tomorrow evening."

"Hooray for us."

* * *

Kíli swung his long sword, carefully, slowly, moving with fluid grace from one defensive position to another, hoping the repetitive and familiar motions would calm him. He was running his most basic, oldest exercises today, ones he'd been taught by Thorin and Fíli when he was but a lad wielding a tiny wooden sword.

Something about the simple motions hearkened back to the dwarfling he had once been, the relatively simple life he'd led before politics and quests and morgul wounds that rendered him practically useless and wreaked havoc on his peace of mind.

Which was really the problem here, he mused as he forced his muscles to remain controlled and tight rather than simply taking his frustrations out on the poor wood-and-straw dummy before him. He was restricted to the Mountain because of the morgul wound, unable to venture much further than the Western Guard Tower; unable to be out there helping face this threat head on, instead sequestered here underground, safe and completely _worthless_.

Even his attempts to work with the Oath's magic had been fruitless, as the power seemed to only appear when the situation called for it—which apparently didn't include training.

And his beloved was rushing headlong into danger to save him, while he was helpless to protect her. He had been able to tell the last couple of days that something was wrong—their Bond hummed with her anxiety, her urgency. It wasn't strong enough for him to think she herself was in critical danger, but something was _definitely_ wrong.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

A roar escaped the Prince of Durin, and his sword whistled through the air as he brought it across the thin wooden neck of the practice dummy.

The lump of straw and fabric thumped as it hit the ground, but Kíli didn't hear it. Impotent rage boiled in his blood, refusing to be shoved back again; and the unfortunate dummy bore the brunt of it as he hacked at it again and again, blows that would easily fell a real enemy in one stroke, a battle rage that would make even Dwalin proud.

Kíli didn't stop when the ravaged pieces of the practice target lay on the ground around him. He didn't stop when the post that had held up the dummy became his next mark. He didn't stop until a steel blade met his—a real one, wielded by a living, breathing warrior. Eyes the color of brandy met his, and Kíli retreated instantly, breathing hard. His heart pounded in his ears, sweat rolling down his face and his arms shaking from exertion.

"Something you care to share, Kee?" Rognus asked him, a crooked smile softening the demand.

Kíli huffed, shook his head.

Rognus tilted his head, regarded his old friend; after a beat, he nodded. "Very well then, come on." He took Kíli by the arm—a dangerous move when a warrior had been tearing a wooden post to splinters less than sixty seconds earlier—and pulled him away from the target, toward the barracks. "Let's get you cleaned up, and then we're going for an ale."

Kíli dug in his heels a few paces later. "No, Rognus, I….I don't want to go to a pub."

"Who said anything about a pub?" Rognus said. "You need a cold drink and a companion right now, not a noisy crowd who won't stop singing poorly-composed love ballads."

"I _need_ another practice dummy," Kíli muttered, feeling his frustration tingle in his fingertips again.

Rognus stepped forward and pried the sword from his friend's hand gently but firmly. Kíli gritted his teeth.

"You're lucky we're swordbrothers," he growled. "Anyone else but Fíli tried that, they'd not have a hand."

"Yes well," Rognus wasn't the least bit intimidated. "We _are_ swordbrothers, and you're in need of some brotherly advice, so come on."

Sighing, but knowing when he was defeated, Kíli followed Rognus out of the training grounds into a smallish inn barely a hundred paces away. It was a relatively isolated place, new like many of the businesses popping up around Erebor, the owners fresh and happy to provide any service they could garner. Which was why, when Rognus asked for a some privacy for him and Kíli, he was directed to a large room just off the main hall, obviously intended for groups that desired the service of an inn but a single place to meet.

Kíli slumped in one of the benches, tracing the rim of his mug idly. He tried to snap out of it, he knew he was practically _sulking_; but there was just too much going on and he didn't want to burden Fíli with any of it, and he was just…

_Ugh_.

"All right, out with it," Rognus plunked down across from him, taking a sip of ale. "Explain to me why you were mangling that defenseless dummy beyond recognition?"

Kíli scoffed. "Because it was a better option than tearing up an actual opponent."

Rognus saluted him with his ale and a crooked grin. "Indeed it was. But why'd you feel the need to decimate something in the first place?"

The Prince sighed, knowing he wasn't getting out of an explanation at this point. He could tell Rognus to get lost, though he'd hesitate to drive away one of his dearest and oldest friends; but it wouldn't matter anyway, the lad would just go to Fíli, and then _Fíli_ would corner Kíli and demand answers.

And the last thing he wanted was to give his older brother yet another reason to worry about him.

"I'm simply frustrated," he answered, quietly.

"Clearly. Why?"

"This morgul wound," Kíli thumped his ale down onto the table, annoyance making him twitchy and tense again. "I can't properly defend my own people, can't be there protecting Ryn while she runs off to some ancient city to heal me from something that has me trapped, hiding here in safety while other people put their lives on the line for me. And if you get to the root of it, all this is my fault anyway, because if I'd never been hit with that _blasted_ arrow, Melkor wouldn't have a chance at having a dwarf 'servant' of the Line of Durin at all—"

Rognus simply nodded, taking another sip of his ale.

"—and add to that the fact that there's not much we can do with the Oath until we need it in the middle of some battle that I have a nasty feeling is coming sooner rather than later, and I just….needed to break something," he finished lamely, petering off as his frustration vented itself into the air between him and his swordbrother.

"Well," Rognus said, cocking an eyebrow. "That all sounds like a very good reason—or number of reasons, really—to be as tense as you are. Since telling you 'all will be well' would be pointless and probably not even true, I will simply say this: remember what Gandalf said. Despair and bitterness are your enemies, Kíli; Melkor can gain access to you just as easily through those as through a physical confrontation. You need to be able to air your frustrations and not let them fester into something worse. And Fíli and I are _both_ here for you, so you've no excuse."

Kíli felt like a dwarfling being scolded. He sighed.

"Now drink your ale," Rognus ordered. Kíli went to comply, but at that moment, a young page ran into the room; panting and sweating. Both older dwarves looked to the lad curiously. He took a moment to compose himself, cleared his throat and stood tall.

"King Fíli summons you, Prince Kíli, to his personal chambers."

Kíli stood immediately, a hand on Rognus' shoulder to thank his friend. "What's happened, lad?"

The boy's eyes were wide. "I don't know, sir, but I hear there's an orc wishing to treat with us on the Northern Border. White flag and everything. Word is he has a message. For you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Happy Tuesday, everyone! This one turned out a lot longer than I expected, but hey! It's exciting stuff! Thanks to _Celebrisilweth_, _miller330_, _Eruwaedhiel95_, and _drwatsonn_ for their wonderful reviews; along with _Cassandrala_ and _summerald_ for their constant support and beta-ing! You all are the best ever!

Enjoy!

* * *

There was no gentle awakening for him, no gradual growing awareness of his surroundings. It was, simply put, painfully abrupt. He gasped, eyes popping open wide as he surged upward to a sitting position, blinking hard against the blinding sunlight that bathed his face.

"Identify yourself, Stranger!" a stern voice demanded, but Elof couldn't see the speaker. He took in deep, heaving breaths, his lungs contracting painfully as though unused to the sensation of inhaling.

"What?" he wheezed. His fingers opened and closed reflexively, and the soft prickle of grass registered in his foggy brain. That, combined with the scent of water, the gentle murmur of it, and the dampness he was just now noticing on his back, gave the young Reader the impression he was near a river.

And, he saw as his vision began to finally clear, he wasn't alone.

He was staring down the shaft of a long, goose-fletched arrow, the delicate features and pointed ears of an Elf Guard looming over him.

"I said," there was nothing delicate about the Guard's tone. "Who are you?"

"E-Elof," he stuttered, coughing. Valar, his throat was dry; how long had he been lying here on the edge of the river? Where was he?

Better yet, _why_ was he lying here at the edge of a river asking himself these questions in the first place?

The elf's eyes were narrowed, but Elof didn't even notice the suspicion in his gaze—something any smart opponent would perceive as extremely dangerous—searching his racing mind for a last memory, anything that would explain what was going on.

Last he knew, he'd been with Ryn and Talos, fighting off—

"Where's Ryn?" he asked, brushing aside the arrow and lurching forward, intending to stand. He made it about halfway before blackness overtook his vision and he ended up sprawled in the damp earth. "Damn," he muttered. He felt the sharp point of an arrow in his back.

"You cur!" the Guard spoke again. "How dare you?"

"Olwë, stop, he needs help," a female voice cut in.

"The simpleton obviously has a death wish," the first voice—Olwë, apparently—growled. "No one in their right mind shoves aside a drawn bow—"

But he quieted when Elof promptly retched into the grass, spitting up bile and something black he preferred not to identify even if he could.

"He's ill, _tirno_," the female implored, and Elof recognized the word "warden" as his address. So a scouting party, then. He'd just pushed aside an _Elf Warden_ in an attempt to get up after being asked to identify himself.

_Curse_ his addled brain, he was lucky he wasn't dead already.

"'M sorry," he tried to say, slightly alarmed by his own weakness. His voice sounded wretched, croaky and hoarse and shaking.

What had _happened_ to him?

"I don't know where I am, where my friends are," he turned to face the guard, hands held up in a gesture of surrender, trying to convey his helplessness. "I am weak and ill…but I am no enemy of the—" he eyed the guard's uniform, "—Elves of Lorien. You know my companions—the Lady Miriel, Healer and Warrioress, and her brother Talos?"

The guard's gaze softened, just the slightest bit, though his bow was still drawn and trained on Elof's chest. "We know of the Lady Miriel. Last we heard, she was travelling with two companions on a quest. You are the Reader, the Human lad who is aiding her?"

"I am." His head was positively _pounding_. Olwë seemed to weigh his options, and Elof sat still, letting him. Quiet acquiescence was his best bet for survival at the moment; and besides, Galadriel's folk were allies, Ryn had told him.

He did wish the elf would hurry up, though; he could really use some herbs or something about now…

"Alassë," Olwë finally ordered, "See to him. We will send messengers to Lady Miriel to verify his story."

_Thank the Valar._

The female elf who'd first spoken for him approached, tossing her long chestnut hair as she knelt and met his eyes.

"I am Alassë," she murmured. "I will check for what ails you, young Human. Please do not be alarmed."

"I'm not alarmed," he gasped. "I'm in _pain_."

"Where?" she latched onto his willingness to help her triage him.

Elof motioned to his head—the pain was intense enough to radiate down his neck and into his spine—and his stomach, which hadn't unclenched since he threw up. Alassë laid a warm hand on his clammy forehead, pressed lightly on his stomach, checked his eyes.

After a few moments of examination, she hummed in satisfaction. "You were poisoned, young one. I have a general antipoison I'll give you that should relieve the stomach upset and help your body overcome the effects of whatever you were given. I do not wish to bring down your fever just yet—it is not dangerously high, and so will assist your body's own defenses. Here, drink this." She handed him a small vial, unsealing the top and offering it to him.

The liquid inside smelled strongly of peppermint—which Elof knew from his short time with Ryn would help with the nausea and headache—but with undertones of other herbs he couldn't identify. He tipped the clay vial with an ironic smile and drank it all in one go.

It tasted worse than it smelled, and burned a bit going down, but his stomach unclenched instantly and within a few breaths, his head ached a little less. He looked up after a moment, meeting smiling blue eyes.

"Better?" Alassë asked.

"Better," he said.

"Good, let us be gone then," Olwë announced sternly. "Idril! Mélawen! Find Lady Miriel—yesterday's report placed her not far from here, just on the border of the Mirkwood."

"Dol Guldur?" one of the two young elves who'd stepped forward—a lad with plaited blonde hair and deep green eyes—asked.

"It appears so, yes," Olwë answered, and Elof felt an unnamed dread steal into his veins; icier than even _that_ cursed place warranted usually. He couldn't identify why, though, or what exactly the feeling meant.

All he knew was she was in trouble.

"Please hurry," he begged, and the two elves bowed to their commanding office before turning and running gracefully toward the eastern horizon.

* * *

The ride on shaggy mountain ponies from Erebor proper to the Northern Outpost was a relatively short one—The Lonely Mountain's stone roots extended further south and west than they did north and east, with the result that it was the work of an hour to reach the Guard House where their orc…_guest_…was being held.

Fíli was impressed with his soldiers and how they'd handled this most unusual situation, even if he was _not_ happy about Kíli agreeing to speak to the monster.

The thing likely would just try to antagonize him, anyway.

But Kee had insisted. Said they might be able to get good intelligence out of the monster, figure out what Melkor's play was. They hadn't heard anything odd or dealt with any bizarre attacks, diseases, natural (or else not-so-natural) disasters since returning to the Mountain. Fíli had to admit that it was odd, but unlike Kíli, he wasn't looking the gift horse in the mouth, as it were.

He had arrangements of his own to make, over and above Kíli and Dwalin's rigorous training of their small military force, for the protection of both the Mountain and his _nadadith_.

Said arrangements were proving to be both time-consuming and exhausting, but Fíli wasn't about to give up.

Still, he wasn't letting his brother anywhere near any of Melkor's servants—white flag or no—without him. So now they stood in the common room of the Northern Outpost, talking with Diran, the ranking officer there, on loan from the Iron Hills. The battle-hardened old warrior was bristly and just about as happy having an orc occupying his holding cell as Fíli was, if his growling and fidgeting with his massive mace was any indication.

Fíli decided he liked the dwarf.

"Blasted creature approached one of the scouting parties—young Boren's group—with a scrap of white cloth and calling out to parlay with, as he put it, 'The Master's Future Apprentice'. I told him no such dwarf existed here, to which he snickered and asked for you by name, my Prince."

Fíli visibly bristled, and Diran added hastily, "I'd have just as soon shot the thing, sire, but the rules of engagement—"

"You did the right thing," Fíli assured the old dwarf. "It is Melkor and his ilk who have secured my ill-will, not you, Master Diran."

The old dwarf grunted in approval and motioned the brothers to follow. He led them through a couple of stone hallways and down to where the narrow passage opened up into a room with a single cell taking up about half of it. Torches along the walls illuminated the dingy space—it probably hadn't been used in nearly a hundred years now—casting long shadows in odd places. Added to the presence of a scarred and wheezing orc in the cell, stubby fingers wrapped around the iron bars and firelight glinting off red eyes, the whole scene had a sinister atmosphere that made Fíli's hand stray to the comforting weight of his sword at his side. He eyed Kee, who was entirely focused on the sneering creature in the cell and seemed not to notice the downright creepy ambiance of the room.

"Bring him out," Kíli ordered, and Diran nodded, pulling out a single long key from his pocket. The orc cackled as two dwarf guards extracted him, none too gently, from the cell and shoved him to his knees before their Prince.

"What do you want?" Kíli asked, and Fíli felt his blood run cold at the tightly-controlled hostility in his voice. It wasn't something he was used to hearing from Kíli, who was all mischief and playful impishness. Even on the Quest, his _nadadith_ had never displayed this sort of open loathing toward an enemy.

Fíli suddenly wondered if they were going to win this thing, only for him to lose his little brother in the process.

"The Dark Vala has sent me to entreat you to see reason, my Lord," the orc grinned, bowing his head once in a mocking gesture of respect. "He wishes to extend the hand of friendship to you and make an offer."

Fíli winced. This caricature of regard was even worse than if the orc had just come in here tossing insults and poisonous threats around. Kíli would just ignore those—but this? This was sure to needle him on the best of days.

Surprisingly, Kíli remained calm. "Does he now?"

The orc inclined its head again. "He does. He says to assure you that your family will remain unharmed if you simply allow him to work through you. Your Royal Mother will be given a comfortable home, your brother shall remain King Under the Mountain, even, under Melkor, King of All. And your…_beloved_…" the creature spat the word, "will be allowed to live. All you must do is surrender. My Master also wishes to remind you that his reach will extend over all of Middle Earth with or without your help—this is inevitable, Prince, and you'd best be on the right side of it when it happens. My Master _will_ gain control of the mountain, the mithril magic, the dwarves; the only question is whether you'll spare your family in the process or not."

Fíli's hand gripped the hilt of one of his swords hard as he fought to control himself. This was Kíli's battle. He studied his brother, trying to anticipate Kíli's next move; but the lad's hard face was expressionless, and even his expressive brown eyes were unusually blank.

He didn't look worried, outraged, or afraid—just…coldly calculating.

Fíli suppressed a shudder.

* * *

It was too quiet, Ryn decided. She and Talos were approaching Dol Guldur, its menacing towers cutting harshly against the dark gray sky, and they still hadn't so much as run into a single guard.

It was a bit alarming, honestly.

Beside her, Talos was visibly tense, obviously as disturbed as she at the complete lack of response from their enemy. He was spinning his axes in both hands as they walked, rasp of wood handles against leather gloves over-loud in the too-silent forest.

"Where are they?" he mouthed when she sent him a look.

She didn't know, and she didn't like it.

* * *

"Oh, and in case you need another reason to join us," the orc growled at Kíli, delight written all over its ugly features. "I am supposed to inform you that my Master is aware of your half-bred whore's plan to 'heal' you from his influence; His Servants captured her only a few days ago, and she sang like a canary once he disposed of her brother and the Human."

_Now_ his brother's eyes registered some emotion—all-consuming rage, and Fíli couldn't blame him, as fury bloomed in his own chest, bright hot and intense.

* * *

The two young dwarves crouched behind a stubby bush just on the edge of the bridge leading into the ruins of Dol Guldur, watching for any sign of activity or movement from inside.

There was nothing at all, and Ryn was getting the worst feeling _ever_ about this.

She fell into her Magic, casting about for any life force at all, in an attempt to determine if they were truly alone, if their captive had given them false information…

* * *

Kíli stepped closer to the orc, looking down at it, fists clenched tightly at his sides in an apparent attempt to control his desire to rip the thing's head off. Instead, he leaned down a little so he and the orc were looking full into one another's faces.

"That scrap of white cloth is literally the only thing standing between you and death right now, _hakhakh shekul,_ so I would choose your next words carefully: what is her brother's name?"

* * *

Ryn's heart nearly stopped at what her Sight was telling her. She grabbed Talos' hand, but made no attempt to move, merely hissing at him, "Ready yourself to fight, _nadadith_. They are here."

No less than fifty ugly black-and-crimson auras surrounded them, far too close to afford the dwarves an escape.

They had walked straight into a trap.

* * *

"What?" the orc let slip, confusion momentarily evident on its face.

"What is her brother's name?" Kíli asked again, not bothering to hide the malice from his voice. "She would have been screaming it, over and _over_, had you really captured her, tortured him, killed him…you would know his name, if for no other reason than it'd be the only thing she would've been able to whimper as you broke her. His _name_. What was it?"

The orc's eyes were wide now.

* * *

"Finally, a real fight," Talos muttered, his back to Ryn's, so he didn't catch the roll of her eyes.

"There are at least fifty of them, you idiot, this is not a moment to be relieved."

"Bring them on!" the younger dwarf growled, shifting his axes in his hand. "They've got another thing coming if they think they can defeat the Children of Kora, Daughter of Erebor."

Ryn grinned despite herself, gathering her power and reaching out for the _orchadâns'_ life forces.

She could at least thin the ranks.

* * *

Kíli stood back up, tall for a dwarf, and looked down at Melkor's messenger, completely calm and cold.

"The thing about bluffing," he said, "is that there has to be a measure of truth to your lie, otherwise it's easily discovered. You don't have her. Her brother is not dead, and neither is their companion."

Fíli could've laughed, both out of sheer relief and awe at his brother's reasoning. It was actually brilliant.

"Now, you run straight back to your _Master_," Kíli said the word with all the derision he could muster. "And you tell him to keep his precious offer. I don't want it. If he's going to gain control of the Lonely Mountain, of Durin's Line, he's going to have to do it without me. And one last thing: you can tell him that if he so much as touches my family, I will personally send him screaming back into the abyss where the rest of his disgusting soul resides."

Kíli stepped back, addressing Diran now. "Get him out of my sight."

* * *

Ryn managed to drain the life force entirely out of ten _orchadân_ and turn the excess into an explosion that killed two others before the main group was on them.

Then it was thrusts, parries, dodging and dealing blows, protecting Talos' back and sides even as he protected hers.

Bodies began to pile up, but the sheer force of numbers was overwhelming. Both Ryn and Talos began to take blows they normally could have deflected, focusing instead on redirecting the truly fatal ones and absorbing the merely-painful ones.

There were just _too many_ of them.

Ryn realized with a punch of fear as more _orchadân_ appeared, apparently reinforcements for the initial wave:

They weren't going to make it out of this.

* * *

_hakhakh shekul—_Khuzdul, lit. "you cowardly dog"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Cheers, everyone! Sorry this chapter is late: real life is kicking my ass in the worst possible ways right now—but I did get a chapter out this week, so there's that. Yay me!

Thanks to _Cassandrala_, _Celebrisilweth_, _Eruwaedhiel95_, and _drwatsonn_ for their most excellent reviews—sorry I didn't get to respond to any of you individually this week, but know that your reviews mean the world to me. Special shout-out to _summerald_ for putting up with my whiny raging writer brain this week; she's been a Godsend!

Enjoy!

* * *

Battles were ugly affairs, Ryn had once heard it said. She supposed that after fighting as many as she'd fought in her lifetime, it was something one thought less about; simply doing what needed to be done because the alternative was something much worse.

But once in a while, a fight was so _horrific_, it brought the point home again.

This was one such fight.

Ryn screamed in combined rage and agony as the dirty blade of one orc-man's sword bit into her thigh deeply while she worked to hold another at bay. The creature laughed—_laughed_—and pulled back, readying for another swing; one that would doubtless take her leg off entirely.

Ryn barely had time to wonder if she could heal an entirely-severed limb before the weapon was swinging in a wide downward arc. She twisted, hoping it would at least hack at a different angle—it'd hurt like Mahal's own hell, but at least she might keep her leg—and ran smack into yet another orchadân, this one grinning down at her as it scissored two daggers at her throat.

"Ryn!" she heard her brother's shout, but couldn't respond as the first creature's sword hit her flesh—at an angle as hoped—and her world exploded in a burst of agony. Steel severed muscle and ligament, drove into bone and stuck there. The daggers at her throat dug into soft flesh as she began to fall, but her own blades were there, stabbing the one in front of her almost without orders from her brain.

She fell, narrowly avoiding having her throat cut and instead getting a deep scalp laceration for her trouble. Blood ran down her face, blinding her.

"RYN!" Talos was panicking, but there was pain in his voice too, and she looked toward him. It was impossible to see him through the melee, especially from the ground where she'd fallen, and panic bloomed in her chest.

What if he needed her help?

Mahal, but she couldn't get to him. Everything _hurt_. Fighting the very real desire to pass out, Ryn resisted the pull of her magic, the instinct to activate the _falancuru_ and destroy everything in a several-hundred-foot radius in order to heal her.

Talos' voice was _too close_, he'd be caught in the shockwave.

She'd rather breathe her last right here on the prickly, dead ground.

A war-cry reached her ears bare moments later, clear and triumphant, nothing like the voice of an _orchadân_…

The creature standing over her snapped to, his attention diverted by something going on behind her; it was enough for her to focus on her magic just long enough to kill every orchadân within six feet of her brother. The effort left her seeing stars.

_Maybe should've healed myself first._

The remaining _orchadân_ were growling in rage now, and though Ryn couldn't see much at this point, blood and darkness vying for priority in her vision, she suspected they'd just garnered some unexpected reinforcements.

_Wonderful_.

She grabbed the auras of two _orchadân_—all she could manage just now—and yanked, applying the energy to her shredded leg and innumerable other injuries. Pain flared white-hot through her nerves, and she nearly lost the concentration required, but Ryn held tight to her magic.

"Ryn!" Warm arms were crushing her against a leather jerkin she hazily recognized.

"_Nadadith_?" she murmured, weakly. His chest spasmed in a sob. "Hurt?" she whispered.

"A little, but I'll live. You just heal yourself, sister."

"Who came?" oh Mahal, she was losing consciousness. She had to make sure he was safe first…

"Elves. They'll help us. Just rest, it's over."

_It's over._

_Valar, everything hurts._

_Hope Kíli doesn't feel this…_

_Hope—_

* * *

Hundreds of leagues north, deep inside the Lonely Mountain, Kíli clutched at his brother's arm and bent over, breathing hard against the echoes of anguish that resonated through his body.

"Kíli?" Fíli said, folding his arms around his brother and holding him up. Kíli breathed deep, feeling himself trembling, and struggled not to cry out at the vague pain that ripped through his right leg. He clutched his head as the world spun wildly.

"Mahal, _ow_," he growled, jaw clenched, worry burrowing deep in his belly.

_Ryn!_

"Kee? Kíli!" Fíli sounded confused and terrified, shaking his brother a little as he ducked them into a small chamber off the hall. "Do I need to call for the healers? What's happening?"

"No!" Kíli shook his head, gritting his teeth. "No need for healers, nothing's wrong with me."

"But you—"

"It's Ryn," he shuddered. "Something bad has happened to _Ryn_, Fíli."

Fíli set Kíli down against the wall, though he didn't let go of the younger dwarf's shoulders. "What? How do you know?"

Kíli looked up, brown eyes meeting blue. "She and I, we—" he hesitated. He and Ryn had agreed not to tell anyone about the Bond that her Eiri blood created between them the last time they had…

_Rukhsul_.

He couldn't see a way out of it now, not with Fíli. Frankly, he realized abruptly, he was lucky he'd gone this long without Fíli seeing it; his big brother had a way of just knowing when something was wrong with him.

_Forgive me, iduzhib._

"There is a Bond created between an Eiri and her beloved," he answered, haltingly as he prayed to all the Valar that Fíli wouldn't ask for details. "We're…connected somehow."

Kíli chanced a look at his brother, gasping through the pain in his leg. Mahal, whatever she'd been hit with was pretty savage, if this was only an _echo_ of what she felt. Fíli's eyes were wide; both of them had grown up knowing the dangers of Binding magic, for the dwarves had some of their own. Bonds were powerful, but also potentially deadly.

"I can feel echoes of things she feels," he pressed on. "At least, the strong emotions. She's been worried sick the last few days, and then just now…"

"That's how you knew the orc was lying," Fíli breathed, hand tightening on Kíli's shoulder as the younger dwarf shuddered. He nodded.

"I couldn't rightly _say_ that to him, so I had to come up with some sort of logic; but I knew Ryn wasn't dead, or even captured. She's been far too calm for that."

"And now?"

Kíli's eyes were wide as they met Fíli's. "Now…she's in _pain_. Something's happened, Fee, and I can't tell what. We have to do something!"

"I know," Fíli looked as worried as Kíli felt. "I'll send a raven to Lorien; we've posted a Ravenspeaker there, and Ryn and Company should at least be _close_ to Galadriel's realm by now."

Kíli nodded, not thinking it nearly enough of a response, but there wasn't much else they _could_ do. Besides, the agony in his leg and head was lessening, fading—whatever had happened, Ryn was healing.

At least, he _hoped_ that's what that meant…

"Meanwhile," Fíli forced a grin. "I want to show you something. I haven't been able to get you to myself since we got back, not for long enough to really talk; and I think this might make you feel a bit better about what's coming."

"What's com—what are you talking about?"

"Just come on!" Fíli pulled him to his feet and led him out of the small chamber. Kíli hesitated, searching the little nub of magic that he recognized as his Bond with Ryn; it was quiet now—his beloved was either completely healed or completely unconscious.

He was fairly certain he'd know if she was dead. _Mahal_, he hoped so.

Refocusing on his brother's retreating back, Kíli forced himself to stop worrying and followed him through winding halls and down, further into the Mountain, toward the heart of it.

"Where are we going, Fee?" he huffed after nearly ten minutes of nonstop running. Fíli just winked back at him.

"Come on, _nadadith_, tired already? You're getting out of shape!"

Kíli couldn't help the grin that tugged at his lips, in spite of everything. He suddenly had a vision of two younger dwarflings, one golden-haired and one raven, squealing in delight at the mad chase around Thorin's Halls that they'd end up in at least twice a week. Mother used to laugh, and Thorin roll his eyes good-naturedly, when they'd come back to the family chambers, out of breath and flushed.

"Where have you boys been?" Thorin would demand, hands on hips. Kíli would hide behind Fíli, giggling, as the eldest stood tall.

"Training, sir," he'd answer, prompting more giggles from his little brother.

"Is that so?" Thorin's best glare would come out, but his blue eyes would be dancing.

"Yes, Uncle!" Kíli's small voice would ring out from behind Fíli. "Fee was an orc chief and I had to excape!" Mother's lips would twitch at her youngest's mispronunciation of the word, and Thorin would kneel before his nephews, nodding at Fíli to step aside so he could talk to Kíli.

Fíli would grin and sidle over, bringing the tiny dwarf around to his side, arm firmly around his shoulders.

"Did you outrun the minor Orc Chief Fíli?" Thorin would inquire, and Kíli would giggle again and nod.

"Good for you," Thorin would smile. "But now you have a greater challenge: you must defeat the Great Goblin Chief Thorin!"

Both boys' laughter could be heard down the Halls as nephews would attack an Uncle who knew that while competition was a helpful training tool, it was even more vital his Heirs learned to fight as a unit.

Training, indeed.

Kíli grinned as he pulled even with Fíli. "Out of shape, you say?"

Fíli laughed. "Easy now, we're nearly here!" He skidded to a stop outside a non-descript door in a non-descript hall far away from much of anything. Kíli tilted his head as he caught his breath, eyeing the door. Its only real defining feature was the silver handle.

"What is this?" he asked. Fíli grinned.

"Open it."

Kíli did as commanded, and felt a jolt like electricity race up his arm as his fingers met the cool metal. He startled, jumping back with a yelp.

"What in the name of the Valar?"

Fíli was laughing now. "It's mithril, Kíli." The younger dwarf nodded in agreement—he'd sensed it immediately, the clear smoothness that any of Durin's line could recognize as mithril.

"Yes, but—"

"The jolt? That was because it's not just _any_ mithril." Fíli opened the door, and Kíli found his jaw dropping at the smallish chamber that was revealed. "It's magicked," Fíli whispered.

Mithril snaked in random tendrils through all the walls and the floor, glistening silver against the dark stone, forming a rough circle in the middle of the floor, surrounded by rough Khuzdul runes. In the corner, a mithril rod about Fíli's height rested against the wall.

"It was sung into the stone by our ancestors," Fíli's voice was hushed, awed. "There are several rooms like this throughout the Mountain. This one is the one that amazes me most, though. Here I can communicate with the Stone itself, Kee, it's incredible."

"Communicate with the Stone?"

"Yes," Fíli answered, excited now. "I used it to find Kerif when he was planning my assassination, and I've been practicing with it for when Melkor shows up. This Mountain has secrets, Kee, like you wouldn't believe—"

"Isn't that a bit…dangerous?" Kíli asked, his brow furrowing. Mithril magic had always made him nervous, it was volatile and sometimes difficult to get right. One could easily create or destroy something one never intended to if the mithril interpreted the speller's wishes a certain way. He never had been able to get the hang of it, and the results had been disastrous once or twice.

Fíli had never had such trouble during their brief training in mithril spells. He still had a mithril dagger he had forged that never required cleaning or sharpening.

Prat.

"It is if you're not careful," Fíli agreed. "Balin has been helping me."

"Good," Kíli said, edging out of the room. "All things considered, I probably should stay as far away from this as possible."

Fíli laughed, threw an arm around his brother's shoulders, possibly remembering the talisman Kíli had once tried to Spell to protect Fíli, but had ended up simply not allowing the dwarfling anywhere near anything remotely dangerous—including fire, water, and his own swords. "You're right, I wasn't going to try and get you to use it."

"Good."

Outside, in the hall, Fíli put both hands on Kíli's biceps and turned him to face him. "But I wanted you to know we're not without hope here, _nadadith_. We have weapons that are formidable indeed, and even Melkor would be hard-pressed to get into this Mountain if we did not allow him in."

Kíli nodded. "But what if—?"

"What if you cannot resist him?" Fíli asked, knowing his brother's fears as well as his own. "If anyone could, Kee, it's you. You're the strongest person I know."

Kíli's jaw clenched against the sudden emotion clogging his throat. He forced a smile—glad his brother had more faith in him than he did in himself—and squeezed Fíli's forearm. "Thanks, _nadad_."

"Now come on. Dwalin's waiting to pummel us both into the ground in the name of 'training'."

* * *

"_Where_ is my brother?" Ryn demanded of the elf healer, not wanting to be rude, but in no mood for games.

"My lady, please, calm yourself. I sent your brother away to eat and wash; the boy hadn't left your side for four days." The healer, to her credit, barely responded to Ryn's temper, speaking softly and calmly as she checked over the girl's wounds.

Ryn winced when the elf touched the leg that had been horrifically damaged. Her magic and accelerated natural healing had prevented infection and stopped the bleeding, held the wound together; but it was still exceedingly painful and Ryn was too tired to bother with magic just now. The _falancuru_ could keep an Eiri moving and fighting for weeks, but eventually even _they_ had to stop and actually rest.

Ryn had been on borrowed time for days before the attack, and now her body absolutely refused to do more than demand to see Talos. She sunk back into the pillows, not able to relax completely until she saw her brother with her own eyes, but knowing the lad would be back soon if the Healer was telling the truth.

"_Ryn_?"

She sat up again, recognition of the voice causing a punch of adrenaline in her veins. She turned to meet blue eyes, pale skin, a shock of black messy hair.

"_Elof_? Mahal, lad, you had us out of our minds with worry!" Ryn reached for him, not bothering to try and get out of bed with the Healer standing right there, smiling in that serene way elves manage so effortlessly.

His smile impossibly wide, the Reader loped across the room in two long strides, folding Ryn in a tight hug and laughing his relief. "_You_ were worried? I woke up on the banks of the Anduin, unable to remember a single thing after we were ambushed! I thought you were _dead_…"

Ryn returned the embrace, a chuckle escaping. "You're not rid of us that easily, my friend."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Good morning everyone! So we're taking a tiny detour here—don't worry, you haven't accidentally clicked on the wrong story! If it seems random, just hang in there; I promise all will be revealed in the end.

Thanks to _Eruwaedhiel95_, _Celebrisilweth_, _Cassandrala_, and _miller330_ for their awesome reviews! You guys keep me writing even when the guacamole hits the fan! Also, a special shout-out to _summerald_ for her review and awesome beta skills!

Enjoy!

* * *

_Year 3319, Second Age_

Estë, called the Gentle Vala, Mother of Healing, walked in her gardens in the ancient and beautiful city of Valinor. Her home had been rather busy of late, as the many souls of Men (and some of the Eldar and Eiri as well) that had perished in the Destruction of Numenor made the Crossing and came to Aman to rest after their mortal lives were over. So many of them were hurting and grieving, Estë and her husband Irmo had had their hands full over the past days; the assistance of their Servants, most notably Olórin, who was possessed of a heart soft as hers and mind sharp as Irmo's, had been invaluable.

The entire situation was a shame, though.

The Race of Men had long been, among the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, the most susceptible to the temptations of evil. The Valar often wondered at the fact, for they and the Eldar were the only races of Arda to have been created by Eru Himself, and it seemed to many of the Ainur that they should have possessed the kind of strength that protected them from such temptation. But alas, it was not so, Estë reflected. Instead, they had demonstrated themselves capable—indeed, predisposed, it seemed—to such crimes as jealousy, rage, murder, thievery, and most recently, an attack on Aman itself based upon nothing but greed.

The Numenoreans, for all their might, had stood no chance, of course, against the Valar themselves. Numenor had been swallowed up and much of the race of Man destroyed as they led each other in a rebellion against Eru and his Servants.

She shook her head as she walked, blessing and comforting the souls in her house. Eldar, Men, her own Children, the Eiri, even the Children of Mahal; all pure spirits made their way here eventually, though they often arrived damaged, grieved, and once in a while, twisted.

One such soul wept nearby. It was a new arrival, Estë realized as she crossed the Lily Gate. This garden was amongst the most peaceful, usually inhabited by the most pained of spirits, those who required her personal attention to heal and truly be at rest.

The woman the Gentle Vala made her way toward was tall, golden-haired and fair, despite the state of her tired and shattered soul. A simple silver circlet rested in her thick gold strands, sapphires and diamonds arranged in an intricate weave that the Vala recognized. Estë's heart ached for the woman, and she placed a soft hand upon that golden head.

"Miríel, my beloved, why do you weep?"

"I weep for everything," the Woman responded, shoulders bowed in grief. "For my forced marriage to my cousin, who killed my only beloved so that he could be King; for my kingdom which he destroyed the moment he brought that monster Sauron into Numenor; for my people who are now scattered and few; for myself, for even as I struggled to the summit of the Mountain to pray for mercy on behalf of my people, I was overtaken by the sea and brought here where I can no longer help them in any way." The end of this bitter speech was met with more tears, though Miríel leaned into Estë's touch, as souls often did. The Vala pulled the Woman into an embrace and let her weep undisturbed.

Many hours later the Gentle Vala strode into her home, through stone halls adorned with ivy and climbing vines. After a time she came upon a richly carved wood door, which she opened and bestowed a smile upon her husband who waited for her beside the hearth.

"My beloved," Irmo nodded, motioning to her to join him. "Come, the fire is a comfort."

She sat beside him, leaning into his strong arms and radiant warmth. She often felt cold in her wanderings, though she never seemed to notice until she was beside Irmo again, saw his small smile directed at her, his gray eyes alive with compassion.

"You are troubled," he stated as she settled. It wasn't a question, and Estë was not at all surprised he noticed. They often sensed each other's thoughts and moods with nary a word spoken.

"I am," she admitted.

"What is it?"

"I spent the afternoon with the Lady Miríel."

"The Queen of Numenor?"

"In name only, yes. Her husband, in addition to his wickedness regarding the attack on Aman, was exceedingly cruel to her in life. He forced her in many things, hurt her in many ways, such that her soul is marked with it. It will take much time for her to heal."

Irmo squeezed his wife against his side in a gesture of comfort. "I am sorry, my Love, I know how such pain grieves you."

Estë nodded, but there was more. "She said something to me that was even more troubling than her pain, Husband."

Irmo waited for her to continue, so she did. "She said the Fall of Numenor began the moment Sauron was captured and brought to the city for trial." Her brow furrowed. "He was brought there to be tried for his crimes, Irmo, and instead he ended up the King's Chief Advisor and instigated the attack that resulted in the fall of an entire civilization."

"Melkor's Lieutenant has certainly earned his reputation," Irmo said, and there was a hardness to his voice that made Estë cold all over again.

"Yes, and I fear he is not finished with Arda yet," she answered. Irmo jolted a little at that, looking down at her.

"What do you mean?"

"He'll not rest until he sees the utter destruction of all that our Father created and we have worked so hard to preserve," she blinked at the tears of despair that stung her eyes. "He has power and charisma and, somehow, a talent for tempting Iluvatar's children into rebellion. Irmo, how do we stand before such evil?"

"My Love, there is nothing we can do to change the choices of the Men and the Eldar save encourage them toward the right path. We cannot force them."

"But _he_ can!" Estë swiped at the tears on her cheeks. "He can, and he _does_, and what are we to do?"

"You have your Eiri," Irmo said. "The Healers of the Hurts of Arda, remember? They have never yet yielded to the Dark One or his servants."

But Estë shook her head. "They are powerless against injuries inflicted by Dark Magic. They are powerful, but not powerful enough." Irmo's eyebrows raised, and Estë knew she was headed quickly for a rare fight with her husband if she didn't explain herself. "I do not mean to say they ought all be entirely invincible, lest they prove to handle it worse than even the Men do. But is there nothing we can do, nothing we can create that could match Melkor himself?"

"Like a weapon?"

Este paused, thinking. "Perhaps. Or a gift. No, _two_ gifts. One from you, one from me, that when used by two souls in unity of purpose, could match even the power of the Darkness. Could we do it?"

Irmo's dark eyes glazed over as he consulted his Ability. She watched his face go from skeptical to accepting to inspired in mere moments.

"Yes," he breathed. "We can."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Hello everyone! I apologize for not posting last week, but have an extra long chapter here to make up for it! Special thanks to _Celebrisilweth_, _Eruwaedhiel95_, and _drwatsonn_ for their reviews, along with _summerald_ for her fast friendship and crack beta abilities!

Also, happy Thanksgiving to any of you in the US!

* * *

"Sêla? Sêla!"

After checking the chambers thoroughly for parental presence, Anora shouted her sister's name, knowing the lass would be home this time of day. She had told Anora, all smiles and blushes, a few days before, that Mister Balin had asked if she wanted to work with the Erebor Scholars and perhaps become one herself—the two had often bonded over scrolls and books in Ered Luin, and even growing up Sêla had devoured any knowledge she could get her hands on.

Evidently the older dwarf remembered it.

So she'd begun working with the small group of academics a few days prior, and it had been the subject of many excited conversations in the five days since. Even their parents had been happy to hear it, proud that their daughter was putting to use the intelligence everyone always knew she possessed. But Sêla was always home for nearly two hours at midday, during her break, to write or read or work on various household tasks.

"Anora?" the lass in question came out of her room looking a little confused and only slightly concerned.

Anora grinned.

"I have something for you!" She shoved the folded parchment into Sêla's hands and rocked back on her heels, still smiling. The lass looked down at it—it was heavy and thick, and her name was inked in an elegant script on one side—then back up at her sister.

"What's this?"

"Why don't you open it and see?"

Sêla broke the thick wax seal and unfolded the parchment carefully, hazel eyes scanning the neat writing and widening in disbelief as she went.

"He wants to…see me? Anora, what's going on?"

Anora's grin was now so wide it almost hurt. "He put two and two together, Sêla—I'd told him that Ma and Papa were trying to set me up with the lad you were in love with, and then you told him that they were trying to set me up with _him_. Thick as he can sometimes be, he's not entirely dim. Fíli knows now, Sêla, or at least likely wants to hear it from you for himself."

Sêla blinked, paling. She sat slowly on the edge of the bed. "Oh, Mahal."

"I know, isn't it great?" Anora laughed. "Nobody—not even our parents—are going to tell the King Under the Mountain no if he wants their daughter. And they get what they desire anyway—a daughter who'll be Erebor's Queen—and you get your One and I get to be in the Guard, and everybody wins, Sêla!"

"_Namad_, you are jumping to conclusions most horribly right now."

"No, I'm serious—"

"So am I!" Sêla looked up at her sister, blue eyes meeting hazel pleadingly. "Sister, he likely just wants to be sure it's the truth so he can do the honorable thing and tell me himself he's not interested. He's the King Under the Mountain, for Mahal's sake!"

"And your childhood sweetheart."

Sêla blushed, looking at the thick rug beneath her feet. "That was a long time ago. And—" she interrupted before Anora could speak up again. "Mother and Father will never agree. You know as well as I that I cannot marry before you, nor marry into a higher status. There's no higher status than Queen, Anora, so I can _never_ marry him. Not unless you marry, I don't know, King Dain or someone!"

Anora didn't even bother trying not to make a face at the idea. "Sêla, I seriously doubt they'd let that get in the way of your happiness and whatever benefit they'll derive from—"

Sêla laughed bitterly. "Whatever benefit they'd gain from me marrying him they'll gain from you marrying him. When did I become the realistic one, _namad_? You know I speak the truth—they'll never agree."

The girls were silent while Anora had to admit internally that, yes, Sêla was probably right.

But this was _Erebor_, not the Iron Hills. Lasses were treated differently here; and maybe, with the right set of circumstances, their parents would come around.

First, though, she had to get Sêla and Fíli both on board.

It was like herding cats, though, these two. Blind stubborn fools, the both of them.

"Just go see him," she pleaded. "If nothing else, do the lad the honor of telling him it won't work to his face. Please, Sêla. It's not right to ask me to break his heart for you."

As expected, her sister's jaw clenched at the implication that she would ask such a thing of anyone, much less her sister. "Don't be dramatic. I'm sure he'll not be 'heartbroken." She paused, then sniffed. "But of course I ought to tell him myself," she glanced down at the paper again, running her fingers over the tidy runes almost subconsciously.

_Poor lass has got it bad._

"Good." Anora tried not to smile. "I'll accompany you, then. Shall we?"

Sêla stood, taking her sister's proffered hand. "We shall."

* * *

_Dearest Kíli, how I wish you were here._

Ryn sighed softly as she lay in bed—for the _second day_ in a row—not quite ready to leave the beautiful dream she'd just had. Reality had made enough of an appearance for her to realize Kíli was not _actually_ next to her, holding her warm and safe in his strong arms, kissing her hair now and then and whispering how much he loved her. Instead, she curled tighter around the pillow she held, letting herself remain in a half-dozed state and composing a letter to her beloved that he would never see.

No raven could carry a letter that far and have it arrive in any condition fit to read.

_I miss you so terribly it's like a physical ache in my chest. I ignore it during much of the day, usually; travelling, fighting, our mission consumes my waking thoughts. We draw closer to Fjallstadr every day, though we are currently regaining a bit of strength in Lorien. My ancestors' ancient city is a mere six day's journey from here._

The sun shone through the open arches of the healing ward. The thin curtains kept it from shining directly on her face, but Ryn could still feel the heat of it, welcome against her skin.

_But at the most unexpected moments, âzyungel; at the most unexpected moments, I am reminded anew that you are far away from me, and the ache is nearly unbearable. When Talos says something that makes me laugh and I turn to share it with you, or when I'm training Elof and want to ask you how to explain something (you're definitely the better teacher, of the two of us). Just the other day, when we fought the orchadân, I scored a particularly complex hit (took out two of the monsters with one dagger strike) and looked for you, somehow expecting those dark eyes of yours to be alight with pride._

_Obviously—and thankfully—you were not there._

Quiet humming as one of the healer assistants entered the ward. Footsteps drew nearer, and Ryn prayed for one wild second that the elf wouldn't pull her away from this cozy place in her mind. Gentle fingers felt her forehead and cheeks, a sound of satisfaction, the tangled blankets being adjusted around her, and then nothing.

The lass breathed a sigh of relief. Thank Mahal she could stay with Kíli a little longer, even if it was only in her mind.

_You are the first thing I think of when I awake, the last face I see before I sleep; every moment I spend not moving forward, I am keenly aware of your suffering. My love, I am doing everything in my power to shorten that time. I will see it done, I swear to you. I will heal you, release you from the torture of Melkor's influence and the morgul poison that pains you so. Every day sees me nearer the Starstone, nearer Fjallstadr, nearer the midpoint of our journey. _

_Every day is one day closer to you._

A tear slid over her nose and hit the pillow, an ache in her chest that Ryn couldn't shake.

_Kíli, my fairy tale prince. How I miss you._

The single tear was followed by others, until Ryn vaguely realized she was crying into the pillow she held. Giving into temptation, she buried her face deeper into the soft down and slipped back into her dreams, where he waited to welcome her with open arms.

* * *

If there was one aspect of kingship Fíli felt he had never been properly warned about, it was just how many documents required his signature. Treaties, proposals, memorandums, announcements, public statements, letters, agreements…

The list went on.

Forever, it sometimes seemed.

Fíli sighed, flexing his fingers and rubbing his eyes as the chamberlain took away the document he had just signed—a proposal detailing the trade of raw ore for Dale weaponsmiths in exchange for cloth, tapestries, rugs, and various other textile products. The weavers of Dale had once been legendary, and many of their descendants had re-settled the place after the death of Smaug.

"My lord."

Fíli looked up, standing belatedly at the sight of the lass standing beside the chamberlain. "Sêla, Daughter of Tefur. She has a royal summons."

Fíli's old friend was blinking hard, trying not to stare. Her fiery hair was pinned back and she had an ink smudge on her jaw. Red working robes reached her ankles, the billowed sleeves rolled up a few times to expose slender wrists and forearms. Her fingers gripped at the loose garment nervously, and between the flexing he could see that her skin there was dark with ink, too. The entire effect made him want to laugh.

She'd been at the books again.

Sêla curtseyed gracefully, despite her obvious anxiety, and Fíli realized he'd gone several seconds without so much as acknowledging her presence. The chamberlain was eyeing him expectantly.

"Oh, yes," he murmured, clearing his throat. "Yes, I sent for her. Thank you, Nort." The dwarf bowed smartly and left.

Another half minute passed, in which Fíli realized, belatedly, that he hadn't really planned what he was going to say to Sêla once he got her here. Cursing himself, he scrambled to find a way to bring up the subject in a delicate way.

"Your Majesty," Sêla began, still looking at the floor, when nearly sixty seconds had passed. "I received this—"

"Sêla, please," he answered with a smile. "It's me, Fíli. Just Fíli." He took a step toward the lass, and she looked up finally, meeting his eyes. She smiled back, shyly.

"As you wish."

Fíli sighed at that, the ice not nearly as broken as he wanted. He pulled a chair over, gesturing to her to sit. "Please, be comfortable. I want to talk to you. But not talk to you like…the King to a merchant's daughter. I want to talk to you like Fíli to Sêla." Her eyebrows rose a couple inches, and Fíli nodded emphatically. "Can we do that?"

She appeared to consider it for a moment, and Fíli was rewarded when her smile relaxed a bit. "Yes of course, Fee."

Fíli grinned at the old nickname. "Better. Now, lass, let's discuss what your sister told me a few weeks ago."

The King nearly laughed when Sêla blushed all the way to the tips of her ears, her skin blotching red enough to match her robes. He bit his cheek to keep from chuckling.

"Yes," Sêla answered, taking a deep breath before raising her head and looking him in the eye. Fíli could see the stubborn streak in those blue depths, the determination to say what she came to say despite her embarrassment. "Anora says she told you our parents wanted to set her up with the man whom I love, but that she wouldn't cooperate."

"Yes," Fíli answered.

"And I told you they wanted her matched with you."

"You did."

"And you've realized what those two statements together mean." He opened his mouth to speak, when she cut him off, complete honesty and openness in her face. "It's true. I've been in love with you for ages, Fíli, Son of Dis. Since long before you left on that Quest, maybe even since you and Kíli made that trip to Dunland."

"Dunland?" he asked, momentarily distracted. "Sêla, that was nearly twenty five years ago."

Her skin darkened red again, but she did not look away. "It was."

Fíli huffed a shocked laugh. "Why did you never say anything before?"

"I…" she shifted uncomfortably. "We were so young, Fíli, I didn't know how to even approach the subject." She paused, then continued very fast. "And I thought…I thought you weren't interested at all, there were plenty of lasses that were vying for your attention, and you were always kind to them, I felt sure someone else had caught your eye…and months became years, and before I knew it you were leaving on this crazy Quest and I was going to tell you the night before you left, because I didn't know if you would survive…but I couldn't find the courage, and believe me when I tell you I hated myself for that, especially when word came there had been a huge battle and no one knew if you'd lived or died. And then that letter came, that blessed letter….you'd _made_ it, you were _King_ now, and I just thought I'd be lucky if you even remembered me, much less….you know, and then our parents said they wanted to match Anora with you, and Father still lives by the Iron Hills customs, so you know why I basically gave up on ever being with you after that." Sapphire eyes took on a pleading look. "And I'm _still_ in love with you, Fee, but I understand that you're not and even if you were, we couldn't ever be anything because my parents will never agree to it and I don't want to marry without their blessing, it's horrible luck—"

Sêla made the gentlest sound of surprise as he leaned forward and shut her up with his lips. Fíli felt his skin erupt in goose flesh at the feeling of her, the scent of her hair and the heat of her mouth overloading his brain. Shakily, she sighed through her nose and relaxed into the kiss, bringing her fingertips up to stroke his short beard with a little hum of contentment.

_Mahal_.

The perfect moment lasted a few more seconds before Sêla tensed, pulling back. Fíli stayed where he was, holding her face mere inches from his with his gaze, studying the flecks of grey in her bright blue eyes. Sêla was breathing heavily, cheeks pink, tears gathering just under her lashes.

"Sweetheart?" he whispered.

"My parents," she choked, closing her eyes. "What are we going to do, Fíli?"

Fíli gave her a cheeky smile. "It's _me_, love. I will convince your Father."

And he would. He'd known Tefur and Poli since he was a child; power and position aside, archaic customs be damned, Fíli was certain he could persuade the two that he was right for their youngest daughter.

Sêla's lips found his again, the kiss gentle and shy but full of emotion. Fíli sank into it, marveling at this feeling, this fierce desire to protect and shelter and provide…and…

"Mahal, Sêla. I'm in love with you, lass."

* * *

To Ryn's delight, they let her out of bed that day.

Well, she had insisted. Rather loudly and petulantly, causing Elof to stare and Talos to moan with embarrassment; but she barely cared. She couldn't spend one more day lying flat on her back doing nothing.

And anyway, a message had arrived from Erebor via raven, from her future brother-by-marriage. It had been simple enough, an inquiry from the elves as to whether Ryn's party had arrived in the Wood yet, but the lass heard so much more in it. Certainly, there was a chance that the timing was coincidental; that the King Under the Mountain was simply inquiring as to her location for the sake of his Royal Brother.

At the same time she was being mauled by monsters that only existed in legend.

_Coincidence, indeed._

She sighed as she made her way toward the Ravenspeaker's post. The implication stood, that Fíli probably knew about her Bond with Kíli now; the King would've asked his brother why it was so vital he send the letter now rather than later—she wasn't even expected in Lorien yet, they'd made really good time before Elof's kidnapping—and she was at a loss as to what Kíli could've told him that would've made sense. Other than the truth, of course.

Still, if anyone was to know, she'd rather it be Fíli. Perhaps it'd even be _helpful_ having him know—Kíli needed someone to confide in, and the natural answer had always been his brother. Why not continue the tradition now?

A tender smile touched her lips. She'd always loved watching Fíli and Kíli together anyway, the way they looked out for one another, shared laughs that no one else was privy to, practically read each other's minds. There was so much history there, so much love and so many stories; Ryn knew she would never know Kíli quite the way Fíli did. Knew that there would always be things only his _nadad_ could help with, times that only Fíli's strong arms and gentle words could be what Kíli needed.

And she would not have it any other way.

After all, she had a brother, too; and their relationship, though it had been stunted by so many years of separation—_forced_ separation, which still irked her—was still growing into something equally as beautiful as what the Heirs of Durin shared. Her lips quirked in amusement as she considered her _nadadith_; the snark he used liberally to protect that achingly soft heart, the little twirl he executed with his axes when preparing to fight, the way he blinked a few times every morning when he saw her, as if to remind himself that it was real, his big sister really was alive and with him.

She knew the feeling.

"My lady!" a voice startled her out of her reverie as she turned the corner. She blinked, focusing on an unfamiliar dwarf lass several feet away, a large black raven on her arm. The lass was shockingly young, or at least it seemed to Ryn—definitely younger than she, and she was considered very young by dwarf standards. She had dark eyes, which had flicked back to the raven she was speaking to, and equally dark hair that tumbled in loose curls down her back. A single knotted braid banded over the crown of her head, woven with a blue cord. Practical clothing—simple tunic, leggings, soft boots—and a leather arm binding to accommodate the ravens' sharp talons confirmed that this was the Ravenspeaker Ryn was looking for. She smiled as the lass finished her work and sent the bird off with a gentle word of thanks.

"You must be Lira?" Ryn asked.

The lass nodded. "And you're Lady Deorynn. Well, the elves call you Miriel, but the correspondence from Erebor…everyone there calls you Deorynn, or if it's the Prince, just Ryn." Lira was blushing now, and Ryn had the distinct feeling this conversation wasn't going quite like she'd imagined it. "Not that I would ever presume to call you Ryn, because it's such a familiar endearment; but Lady Miriel almost feels like a betrayal, because I'm no elf, and Deorynn is such a lovely name anyway—"

Ryn snorted, in a failed attempt to hold back an outright laugh, and the lass' expression dropped while her ears turned red. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

"No, no!" Ryn hastened to assure her. "It's quite all right, I am sorry for laughing at you. I still cannot get used to the idea of folks actually wanting to meet me, say nice things…anyway, please. Do feel free to call me whatever you like. I do not mind."

Lira was smiling now. "I think Lady Deorynn is quite perfect."

"Very well, but just Deorynn, please. I'm no lady."

At that, the lass actually laughed. Softly, and a bit shyly, but it was a laugh nevertheless, and Ryn smiled wider for it. "I was looking for you anyway. I wish to send a message to Erebor; do we have a raven ready to make that journey?"

Lira nodded seriously, all business. "We do. What do you want to say, and to whom is your message going? Lady Galadriel already sent a response to the King when we received his inquiry as to your location."

"Good, that is a relief. He must have been worried to reach out like that."

"He was." Lira's eyes were somber. "The missive was hastily written, and he said they had intelligence that something may have happened to you. I'm certain the Prince was quite beside himself."

Ryn nodded again. "I would not blame him. I cannot say all I wish to in a small enough letter for a raven to carry, obviously; but could you write only two sentences to Kíli?"

"Of course." The Ravenspeaker settled herself at her writing desk and retrieved a slender length of parchment from a drawer. It was just thick enough for one line of script, but very long. "A new idea," Lira offered, seeing her confusion. "I actually proposed it. For missives longer than ravens can carry, or journeys too far for them to remember a message, we write on this parchment. Then we roll it up in a special small metal case around the raven's leg."

Ryn's eyebrows rose. "That's impressive, actually."

"All the Erebor Ravenspeakers are using them now, especially those posted in other kingdoms, like me." Lira smiled gratefully and grabbed her quill from the inkpot near her right hand. "Now, my lady—er, Deorynn—what would you like to say to Prince Kíli?"

"Yes, thank you. 'Ambushed by orchadân in Dol Guldur, but Enemy is not there. All is well, the dawn comes quickly now.' He will understand."

Lira's tongue rested on her lower lip as she carefully wrote the Khuzdul runes on the thin strip of parchment. The message fit with room to spare, and the lass asked next, "How shall I sign it?"

Ryn thought for a moment. "_'Idúzhib-më'_, please."

Lira's cheeks pinked as she bent back over the desk, and Ryn stifled another chuckle. "As you wish, my Lady."

The Eiri lass watched as Lira called a fresh raven—she recognized the little hen, Kip, and greeted her heartily while the little corvid dashed around her head in excitement. This was the raven Kíli had tasked with tracking her while Fárbjóðr held her captive a couple months ago, and though she'd never seen Kip during that trip—she'd been well-distracted by other things—she had met the hen later, after reuniting with the caravan headed to Erebor. She was a flighty little thing, beautiful and sleek and excitable. Ryn was no Ravenspeaker, but even she could make out the excited quorks of "Spring Lassie, Spring Lassie!"

Finally, Lira calmed Kip enough to roll the strip of parchment into the message carrier on her leg. "Deliver this directly to Fledgling, Kip. No one else, got it?"

Ryn smiled as the raven darted off in a rush of feathers and squawks. _Mahal bless your journey, Little One_, she thought. _Carry my love to him as quickly as you can_.

"My Lady?" Lira asked softly. She seemed shy again.

"Yes?"

"Please…the King has sent out an announcement to the Ravenspeakers about what is happening. There weren't many details, but he said the Mountain is in danger of attack from the Spirit of Melkor himself, and that somehow, the Prince is in grave peril. No one speaks of you or your mission, but…" she fidgeted, as if unsure whether to go on.

"Yes?" Ryn prompted.

The lass took a deep breath. "I don't pretend to know your quest, my lady; only that I suspect it has something to do with protecting the Mountain, and more specifically, helping Prince Kíli. I only wish to ask: when you said the dawn comes quickly…does that mean you are nearing your goal? The mission is almost complete?"

Ryn regarded the lass for a moment while she considered her answer. She obviously would not give details to someone she barely knew, but all Ravenspeakers were thoroughly vetted and checked, and were entrusted with sensitive information all the time.

So she settled for looking out over the balcony into the ethereal forest of Lorien, and answering the lass a single word:

"Yes."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Happy Friday, everyone! Sorry I didn't get to respond to those of you who reviewed immediately—as has been the case for most of us the last couple weeks, my family has been wildly busy with the holidays (speaking of which, hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving!). On that note, special thanks to _Celebrisilweth_ (believe me, Ryn is about to get _real_ focused on her mission), _Miriel Tolkien _(Username win! Also, I agree Fili doesn't get enough love—there's more for him in this chapter!), plus my girls _Cassandrala_ and _summerald_. Both ladies have awesome fics up, you should go look at them!

Okay, on with the story!

* * *

He hadn't spent the vast majority of his childhood with a sorcerer for nothing.

This all was familiar—terrifyingly so—to Elof. The headaches, the inability to focus, the way his limbs felt heavy and his blood thick and sluggish in his veins. The sleepless nights brought on by night terrors that left him confused and gasping for air. Add to that the fact that he _still_ could not remember a thing from the time he was separated from his friends—Ryn told him it was nearly a week he'd been a prisoner—and the Reader had quickly begun connecting the signs.

Melkor's folk, or whomever had had him for those seven days, had a sorcerer at their disposal. And they'd done something to him. What, he did not know; but something wasn't _right_.

"…Elof? Are you with us?" Ryn's voice cut into his thoughts, and he came back to the conversation with a start.

Blue eyes blinked blearily. "Yes, sorry, what?"

Ryn gave him a sympathetic smile. "You need to get some more rest, lad. If you like, I can—"

"No!" Both Talos and Elof interrupted. "Ryn, no using your magic for _anything_, you know that," Talos said firmly. "Not until you're stronger."

The girl on the bed rolled her eyes. "For the love of _Mahal_, you two. I've been resting for three days now, and I feel simply exceptional. Besides, who said anything about magic? I was going to say I could give you some herbs to help you sleep better. You look exhausted."

_Sleep_, Elof scoffed internally. It wasn't likely. He'd tried herbs already—the elven healers had given them to him the very first night he woke sweating and shaking in the Healing Ward.

It hadn't helped.

The next night, they'd tried others, more potent ones. It still hadn't worked.

After the third day, they'd released him with more of the herbs, but he never took them. He didn't see the point in wasting what could be used for someone else.

It was going to be a problem on the road, though, and Elof knew it. He wouldn't be able to keep Ryn or Talos from seeing him toss and turn in his sleep, thrash and sweat and jerk until he woke, often loudly and very vocally. There was also the small matter of whatever the sorcerer had done to him could easily be used against Ryn and Talos—Melkor or his minions could be hearing everything Elof heard, or seeing everything he saw, right this moment…

_By the Valar._

The thought sent the young man to his feet in a stifled panic. Ryn and Talos stopped talking abruptly, looking up at him with confused expressions.

"Are you well?" Talos asked, head tilting in a way that made him look as young as he really was, almost more dwarfling than warrior.

Elof thought he might be sick.

"I just…I need….I forgot something in my chambers. Please excuse me."

"Elof, wait!" he heard Ryn cry as he practically ran from the room. "Wait, please!"

He didn't stop.

* * *

_Durin I travelled across much of Middle Earth until one night he happened upon a small pool in a vale of the Misty Mountains. Into this pool he looked, shocked to find his reflection crowned by seven stars of the heavens. Since that day, the group of stars the elves know as Valacirca is called by the Children of Mahal 'Durin's Crown', anbe—_

Sêla sighed as she eyed the massive smudge of ink beside the misspelled word on the parchment she had been assigned to transcribe from the ancient text that sat beside her. "Blast," she muttered.

She had been basically useless for the past three days, and if she wasn't careful, Master Balin would notice. And if he noticed, word would get back to her parents, who had little patience for such distraction. Not to mention it would generate questions she had no desire to answer just yet.

She was fairly certain "I have fallen in love with the King Under the Mountain, and he loves me too; and we've been meeting in secret for the last few days to talk and…_not_ talk" was a good way to damage, more than assist, her case.

Fíli had been ready to go talk to her father the very day she confessed her feelings to him, go straight to her family chambers and plead for her hand right then. Sêla had begged him not to, insisting that the news would go over better if she could find a way to…_ease_ them into it, her Father especially.

Tefur didn't take kindly to his Word of Law being ignored, specifically by his wife and daughters.

_Which is probably why he so often is vexed by Anora._ The thought made Sêla grin.

"Lass, is that not the third time you've had to re-start that page?" Master Balin's voice, though kind, made Sêla jump as it pulled her from her thoughts. She stared down at the parchment again, eyeing the smudge as though it had personally offended her.

"Yes sir," she answered quietly. "Can't seem to get anything right today."

Master Balin's eyes twinkled, and she wondered for one wild second if he _knew_.

"Alas, days like that afflict us all." He picked up the destroyed document. "Well, I'll have this blank section cut off for spare parchment, you know where to find new sheets." She nodded and went to comply, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. "And lass?"

She looked at him questioningly, trying not to blush outright.

"I know it's a lovely fantasy you've got going in that bright young head of yours, but do try to check back into real life once in a while, eh? You'll give away the whole thing."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the stunned young lover behind to gape.

The rest of the morning passed just as slowly—as _torturously_—as the first two hours had; but finally Sêla was released for her midday break by a grinning Master Balin. She reflected as she walked out of the Scholar's Quarter, turning left instead of right, toward home, that if he didn't stop it she just might lose her mind entirely.

She shook off thoughts of the old dwarf, though, in favor of images of a younger one with hair like sunlight. She bit back her smile and walked a little faster.

Fíli was waiting for her on what they both now considered their secret balcony—that same overlook where she had run into him when he sought solitude a couple of weeks prior. It was, Sêla liked to think, the beginning of their relationship, as that was the day she'd unwittingly let spill to Fíli that he was the lad she was in love with.

She'd never been so grateful for a social blunder, she realized as his sky-blue eyes met hers and his lips turned up in a grin.

Fíli reached for her, and Sêla went to him without hesitation. He clasped her smaller hands in his strong ones, and Sêla marveled at the way her heart sped up at that simple touch. He was so close, his face only inches from hers; and when he reached up and tucked a fiery curl behind her ear, Sêla couldn't help the way her eyes fluttered closed. It was ecstasy, plain and simple: his touch was tender, almost tentative, like he was holding something fragile and precious beyond measure, and his other arm tightened around her waist slowly, pulling her against his warm chest.

_Mahal_, a girl could get used to this sort of treatment.

"Hello, my love," he murmured, in that deep husky voice he reserved only for her. Sêla shivered just before his smiling mouth met hers, and words seemed unnecessary and superfluous after that.

* * *

Elof half-ran through the Halls of Lorien, barely noticing any of the elves eyeing the stumbling, half-panicked human with barely-concealed concern.

_Outside_. He had to get outside. He needed air. And space.

Room to think. Room to plan, to escape their eyes and their questions and their sympathy and their _help_.

The young Man gasped for air as his chest tightened. He knew if he didn't get himself under control soon, he was likely to end up in a full-blown anxiety attack; it had happened before. Unfortunately for him, when it had, he'd been under the care of the merciless sorcerer who'd kidnapped him as a child and used his abilities shamelessly for over ten years.

It hadn't ended well for him.

_Fárbjóðr_.

Just thinking the Eiri's name had his heart beating even faster and his steps faltering as he tripped over his own two feet, trying to escape what was now only a bad memory.

Or was it?

Damned sorcerers. What was it about him that screamed '_TARGET!_' to them?

Elof stumbled out the elaborate arched door of the Healing Ward and into the coolness of the evening air. Still he did not stop, sucking air into his aching chest as he lurched forward; searching for a quiet place, isolated, somewhere without watching faces or prying questions, somewhere beautiful, somewhere…

_There_.

A huge oak, gnarled branches thick and strong, in the midst of a secluded vale several hundred yards from the House. The Reader nearly fell into the knotted roots of the massive tree; large and tangled and perfectly suited to hide a relatively slender Man—the lack of exercise and sunlight and proper food in Fárbjóðr's care had ensured Elof remained small for his age, and now it was nearly too late to really catch up—and didn't bother trying to stop the impending tears he felt stinging his aching eyes.

_Oh Valar, what am I going to do?_

He'd never been one for useless tears—the environment he'd come to adulthood in hadn't really allowed for it—so the crying didn't last but a minute or two before the young man began deliberately breathing deeply and slowly, attempting to silence his screaming thoughts and wheezing gasps. He _had_ to calm himself, think rationally, protect his friends…

What could he possibly do? He couldn't remember what had happened to him, didn't know what Melkor's folk (or whoever had captured him) wanted with him, had no idea how to even _begin_ fighting any of this. He had no magic of his own, and he knew from experience that he was basically helpless when under the influence of a spell.

_Though_, he thought, _not entirely._

Growing up the prisoner of a sorcerer had given him one advantage, and that was that he usually could passively resist the power of magic. Well, 'resist' was generous; really, all he knew how to do was redirect the intention of the spell just enough to minimize the damage done.

_Redirect_.

Elof's lips twitched in a grim smile, a fleeting moment of triumph as he realized what he could do to save the woman who had rescued him from captivity, and the brother she loved more than life itself.

He did not want to do it, though, he realized with some surprise a moment later. Images flashed in his mind—studying ancient Eiri and elven texts with Ryn in Erebor's library, weapons training with Talos, the boy's grin when he got something right, and the teasing banter he'd begun to develop with both of them, both of them laughing across a campfire at something he said—and he suddenly realized.

He had become hopelessly attached to the dwarf siblings.

Elof's jaw clenched in suppressed grief. They were the first real friends he'd had since childhood, his saviors and his companions, two comrades who had accepted him in spite of his oddities and his complete lack of social skills, who had taken him in as one of them and made sure he could fight for himself.

And he had no choice but to leave them.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Hello friends! The big news in the fandom this week, is, of course, the release of Battle of the Five Armies. I _have_ seen it, absolutely loved it, and am not ashamed to say I cried for nearly twenty-four hours afterward. And then started writing like mad.

And here's the result! Enjoy.

(Special thanks, as always, to **summerald** and **Cassandrala** for all their help and beta skills!)

* * *

A choked cry, gasping breaths as he sat up wildly.

_Kíli was standing outside Erebor's Great Gate, on the road between the dwarven stronghold and the kingdom of Dale. He was facing the city of Men just to the south of his beloved home._

_And it was burning._

_A punch of fear rushed hot through his veins. Dale was being rebuilt—it had been nearly a year since the orcs had ransacked the ruined city, full of refugees from Smaug's rampage against Laketown. Bard was Lord of Dale now; and with Thranduil and Fíli's help, the city was being restored at a record pace, its citizens both hardworking and stubborn enough to refuse to leave. _

_Until now, apparently, as both men and dwarves streamed out of the burning city. From where he stood, he could hear them screaming, see Bard's younglings riding out on horses; the lad, Bain, leading his sisters to safety._

_Until a stream of fire arced through the air to engulf the human children in a massive fireball. Kíli blinked in shock, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut._

_His own shout of horror was drowned out by the ravaged scream of Dale's King—of Kíli's friend—Bard, who was struggling uselessly in the arms of two gigantic orcs atop the watch tower facing Erebor. They laughed as they held him over the stone rail, forcing him to watch his son and daughters engulfed in flame, as his fleeing people met a similar end from other fireballs that followed, and rampaging orcs that came from all directions. _

_The bowman-turned-King was still screaming for his children when they stabbed him through the back with a cruel orcish blade and dropped him off the parapet._

Tangled bedsheets, a cry of frustration, and he found himself on the soft rug beneath his bed, on his rump.

"Hurry, hurry," he muttered to himself, disentangling his legs from the cotton, sweat-slicked skin sticking to the fabric.

_The loud, evil laugh had Kíli turning on the spot, unable to move as he took in the sight that met his wide eyes._

_The Great Gate was destroyed—all their hard work in the past months lying in a twisted heap of metal and scraps on the field—the Warriors and the King's Guard were out in force, fighting desperately against a frankly-alarming number of orcs and goblins and trolls. _

_It was the Battle of Five Armies all over again._

Padded feet raced down the stone halls, the sound echoing through the silent cavernous space.

"Fíli!"

_Except it wasn't, he realized. Fíli stood on an overlook above the ruined gate—one he had never seen before. His brother wielded a mithril staff topped with some sort of blue stone, chanting Khuzdul spells that Kíli only barely recognized. But even though he himself had never had a talent for mithril magic, he could recognize its effect on the Mountain—their home was like a living thing in Fíli's hand. The King Under the Mountain directed his staff, speaking words of power and opening up the earth outside Erebor to swallow up entire garrisons of orcs at once. _

_Kíli's heart stuttered painfully in his chest as he became aware of several…presences…beside him. Turning his head, he yelped in alarm when he took them in fully._

_They were Men, he supposed, much taller than he, too short to be elven—but he had never seen Men like them. They were ruddy-skinned and entirely hairless, with white eyes and swirling tattoos running over every bit of their exposed skin. They were pierced in places Kíli had never known one could be pierced—tongues, lips, eyebrows, cheeks—as well as the more expected earlobes and noses. Flowing robes clothed them, and in each of their hands, they held glowing stones; not gems, but carved rune stones that felt evil to even look upon. _

_There were four; two on his right, two on his left. He heard one spit something poisonous-sounding from his bloodless lips, and a blast of sickly-green light left the stone in his hand. _

_He followed its path, his lips opening in a silent scream when he saw where it was headed._

"Fee!" Kíli shouted again, the guards outside his brother's room quietly imploring him to be calm.

"I need my brother!" he just shouted.

_The green blast of magic punched into the stone wall below Fíli's feet, exploding in a storm of rock and debris. The King had evidently seen it coming, as he threw himself to one side of the open balcony, clinging to the sheer rock face until the smoke cleared just a little._

_Kíli sighed in relief._

_But now his nadad was joining the fight, dropping from the overlook in a way that made Kíli's breath catch in his chest before he landed safely atop a pile of rubble. Double swords gleamed in the dull sunlight as Fíli threw himself into a knot of enemies, and his rage-filled battle cry reached Kíli's ears there on the midst of the battlefield:_

"_THIS IS FOR KÍLI, YOU HONORLESS DOGS!"_

_Kíli blinked, confused. He was right here. Right…here…_

_His first clue something was wrong was when he could not move his own legs to carry him to Fíli. _

"_FÍLI!" he tried to shout, but his lips did not move. Terrified, Kíli struggled to move something—anything!—to get his body to respond to his brain's orders. And that's when he heard it._

_A deep, rumbling chuckle vibrated through Kíli's chest, but it wasn't his own. _

Son of Durin, I warned you this day would come.

_Finally his head moved, and Kíli was able to look at himself in the gleaming armor of the Orc Chieftain who stood before him. What he saw brought a silent scream to his unresponsive throat._

_He looked like himself. But where had once been deep brown eyes were now glowing red orbs. His skin had darkened and split, bleeding black light out of his physical form. His dry lips were pale and curled into a smirk that looked nothing like him._

Now you are mine.

_Mahal, please no. It cannot be._

"_It is time!" his voice shouted, but it wasn't his voice at all. It was deeper, rumbling, filled with such hatred and vitriol as Kíli was sure he had never possessed._

_But he understood now. It was not him. Melkor had taken him, and he was now a vessel for the most evil of all creatures Arda had ever seen._

_Mahal._

The door finally burst open and Kíli was met with the wide blue eyes of his _nadad_, his hair askew and unbraided, in naught but his sleeping clothes.

"What is the—Kíli?" Fíli asked.

With a cry of relief, Kíli pressed his forehead to Fíli's in a dwarven embrace. Fíli gripped the back of his head with one hand and his shoulder with the other, breathing slowly to encourage his brother to calm. It worked; after a few moments, Kíli's heaving chest slowed, his trembling eased fractionally, and his fingers loosened themselves from where they were wound tightly in Fíli's tunic.

"Brother," he choked, the sound almost a groan. Everything he'd seen….he had to stop it….

"Kíli," Fíli soothed, a hand around his shoulder leading him into the chamber, shielding his younger brother from prying eyes effortlessly. "Come."

They shuffled into the King's receiving room, Kíli's knees still weak and cold sweat dripping down his temple. Fíli sat him gently in the velvet-plush armchair and tucked a wool blanket around his shoulders, murmuring to him the whole time, the same way he had when Kíli suffered from nightmares as a dwarfling.

The memory made Kíli's heart thump hard against his ribs.

He could not let it happen. He _couldn't_.

"Now," Fíli was saying, settling down on a soft cushion within arm's reach of his _nadadith_. "Do you want to tell me what that was all about?"

"Melkor," Kíli answered without hesitation. If he was going to stop this, he needed to tell Fíli, and quick. His brother's blue eyes hardened.

"What about him?"

"He's been torturing me with dreams for _days_ now, visions of his plans for you, for Ryn, for Mother and Erebor and our friends." Kíli shuddered and ignored the way Fíli's face switched from concern to rage and back again, all in the span of about three seconds.

"Why did you not tell me?" Fíli asked.

Kíli turned imploring eyes on him. "Because there is nothing you can do, and it is my burden to bear-"

"That's where you're wrong, _nadadith_," Fíli's tone brooked no argument. "This burden belongs to us both."

"It matters not," Kíli shook his head quickly—they were getting off subject. "What matters is that tonight, I saw more than he intended."

_Even as Fíli, King Under the Mountain, fell under the onslaught of combined magic and a massive orc horde, Kíli shoved hard at the consciousness attacking his own—this was a dream, a vision of a future the Dark Vala was planning, perhaps, but no more real than the storybooks he'd read as a child. _

_He would not falter. It was time for Melkor to realize Kíli, Son of Dis, Prince of Erebor and Heir of Durin, was not one to be trifled with._

_Filling his mind with thoughts of his loved ones alive and well, Kíli launched his own assault, beating back the vision of his brother's lifeless eyes staring unseeing at the sky outside the Great Gate._

_No._

_That deep chuckle sounded again, cruel and confident._

Oh yes, Prince of Erebor. It is the future.

_**No**__._

_Kíli shoved at the solid dark presence inside his head. To his shock—as well as Melkor's, he guessed—rather than push the darkness back, the dwarf fell into it, yelping in surprise. Visions flashed before his eyes, vivid and so much more real than what he'd just experienced:_

_An alarmingly-large orc giving a report before him. _

"_My Lord, she escaped our ambush. Her brother is stronger than we anticipated, and filthy elven scum arrived just in time to save her."_

_Hot, boiling rage at the idea she slipped through his fingers yet __**again**__._

_An underground cavern, full of orcs and goblins and massive War Beasts. There weren't as many as there had been at the Battle of Five Armies last year, but there were enough._

"_We attack from the North!" his voice shouted to the assembled orc chiefs. "Swiftly and silently, in the dead of night. My Servant is most vulnerable when he sleeps-"_

_**NO!**_

"He is amassing an army in the deep caverns beneath the Grey Mountains," Kíli reported, locking his gaze with his brother's. "I have seen it. They mean to attack us from the north, and at night."

Fíli blinked quickly, a myriad of expressions racing over his face.

"When?" he choked out.

"I do not know," Kíli answered. "But it will be soon."

* * *

Golden light peeked over the canopy of verdant trees, ringed by clouds of pink, purple, and orange. The sky was deep blue between the clouds, and Ryn reflected that it was remarkable to have weather so fine so near the close of the year.

She took it as a sign of the Valar's blessing on her quest.

The quest, she thought, that she really _really_ needed to get back to. She had been resting, healing, growing stronger in Lorien for seven days now-seven days too many, in her estimation. Every moment she rested was a moment Kíli languished still under the influence of the morgul poison.

Blinking hard, Ryn took in the sunrise for a moment longer, the pastime that reminded her so much of her beloved it made her heart ache, before beginning the climb down from the giant oak she had scaled nearly an hour prior. Ryn snorted as she imagined what the Chief Healer would think if he could see her now; bare feet clinging to the rough bark, arm muscles taut as she lowered herself toward the ground, breathing deep and steady.

She felt so alive, he'd probably chastise her for straining herself.

A smile tugged at her lips as she dropped to the ground, cold fall leaves cushioning her landing well enough it didn't hurt at all. Ryn stood slowly, re-orienting herself and turning back toward the Healing Houses to bathe and ready herself for the day.

It was _past_ time for them to start planning the last leg of their journey west. They were to follow the Nimrodel River west, toward the Misty Mountains, then skirt the foothills due south until they reached the northern edge of Fangorn forest. From there, it was a straight shot west to Fjallstadr. According to Elof, there was a narrow valley a league north of Fangorn that would take them straight into the ruined ancient city without having to navigate the mountains themselves, saving them days of travel.

If, she reflected, the goblins that now inhabited the Misty Mountains hadn't gotten there first and settled in the valley.

"Your way will be clear," a soothing voice interrupted her ruminations, and Ryn looked up to see the tallest, most beautiful elven woman she had ever beheld. A spontaneous smile spread itself over her face—she had met the Lady Galadriel briefly the last time she'd been in Lorien mere months ago. She was undoubtedly the most awe-inspiring noble Ryn thought existed in all of Arda; but her regal bearing and undeniable power were balanced with an intrinsic kindness and uncompromising moral code. Ryn curtseyed.

"Lady Galadriel. It is indeed a pleasure to see you again!"

The elven queen gave a nod of respect to the much-smaller woman. "And you, young one. I have heard your journey here was…eventful."

"It was rather _un_eventful until my companion was captured."

"The look on your face indicates you fear the rest of the journey will fare no better." There was a question in the statement, and Ryn looked up at the elf queen.

"Yes," she replied simply. "I fear that."

There was a moment of silence, and Ryn felt fear clench in her belly when Galadriel did not refute the claim. She just kept walking, bare feet barely making a sound in the waking forest.

"You are right to fear it," she finally responded, and this time her voice held a heaviness that bespoke her thousands of years of life. "Your way will be clear, as I said. But all is not well within your company, Deorynn Miriel."

Ryn whirled to face the Queen so fast her neck wrenched. She planted her feet, prompting the elf to stop and face her, and she looked up, holding that piercing blue gaze. "What do you mean?" she asked, fear and anger vying for dominance in her mind.

What did the Lady of the Wood know that she did not?

"Your human friend," Galadriel responded without hesitation. "He is….unwell."

Ryn blinked. "He has seemed out of sorts lately, but I attributed it to his recent captivity."

"Yes."

"Are you saying there is more going on with him than that?"

Galadriel tilted her head. "No, I believe his current trouble stems from his time with the orcs." She appeared to be thinking, so Ryn did not interrupt. "I cannot discern the true nature of it, but an enchantment lies upon him. I do not know why or for what purpose this spell was laid, but I can tell you this; it was not for your benefit, nor his."

Ryn shuddered. It was not so far out of the realm of possibility that Elof had been the victim of some sort of enchantment while in captivity—Melkor employed all kinds of folk, after all, and he seemed to have a preference for those who could wield magic.

"Can you help him?" The words were out of her mouth before she could think properly about them; but she held Galadriel's eyes, though she blushed fiercely. The Lady of the Wood smiled then, a dazzling look that made Ryn wonder how evil could really exist at all in the same world as she.

"Perhaps, young one. I would certainly be willing to attempt it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Elof signed his name at the end of his missive to Ryn, praying that she would be the only one to read it. It contained information regarding the opening of the Vault that could prove…problematic…if it were public knowledge. Things he hadn't planned to tell her until they were standing before the small stone trapdoor, ready to collect the _Umräd_.

Things he'd planned to do himself, that now she would have to do instead.

The thought gave him pause; he could not send her to…

But no. There was no choice. He could not go anywhere _near_ the Starstone—the magic that laid upon him now was definitely malevolent. He'd likely intend to bring it to her and instead end up taking it straight to Melkor.

And the idea of Melkor possessing the _Umräd_? It was unthinkable.

No, this was his only option. To leave, and quickly. Get himself as far away from his friends as possible. Give Ryn enough information that she and Talos could complete the mission on their own. Make sure they knew he was safe so they didn't come after him.

This was all he could give.

Clenching his jaw to stave off tears, the young Man buckled his leather pack securely and hoisted it onto his back. It was heavy, but manageably so, and it held what he hoped was enough provisions to see him safely to the next town he ran across on his way to…

Elof swallowed a sob. Where exactly _would_ he go? He couldn't go back to Edoras. There was nothing for him there. The memories that had been assaulting him in a wave since late last night had made that option moot.

Because she was not there.

_There were four of them; tall men, dark-skinned with tattoos depicting horrific acts Elof preferred not to even consider. Their robes were of rich scarlet, and they held rune-stones which glowed menacingly, giving off sparks of power._

_In their midst, a woman, floating six inches off the ground, feet kicking desperately. Her blue eyes were wide in her still-young face, and she choked his name in panic._

"_Elof! E-Elof, my son…"_

"_Stop it!" he screamed, struggling against his own bonds, to no avail. "Please, don't hurt her!"_

_The tallest of the men turned to him, scarlet eyes glowing like his rune stone. "In case you get any ideas about fighting the enchantment we will place on you."_

_Maera was growling now, eyeing the man with something akin to hatred. He did not see—none of them did, their gazes fixed upon the young human on his knees before them._

"_Elof!"_

"_Mama," he whispered, brokenly. She looked to him and her eyes softened. _

"_Consider this…a warning, of a sort," the warlock was still talking._

I love you, éafora, _Maera's lips formed the words. _Remain strong, my little bear.

_The warlock twisted his fingers, and his mother's neck jerked, snapping into an unnatural angle. Elof didn't hear himself scream as the light left her eyes._

His mother was not there. Edoras held nothing but memories now; he was unfettered, free to go where he willed.

Not even that, for he would have chosen to stay with his friends if that were an option. So really, he was free to go anywhere but where he _wanted_ to be.

Taking a deep breath, Elof pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his coat. Carefully, he looked down at it, warring with himself whether to keep it or leave it. He ran his fingers lightly over the careful sketch Ori had made for him as a gift. It had been drawn the night before they left for Fjallstadr; in it, Talos sat beside him on a wood bench, laughing and saluting with his ale. Ryn stood behind them, grinning as she ruffled their hair. Elof himself was smiling, his gaze having flicked up to the soon-to-be Princess.

The young man swallowed past the lump in his throat—he could not afford to break down, not now, Ryn would be back soon and he needed to be long gone by then—and placed the sketch carefully on her pillow, along with the letter.

He did not intend to survive this journey, and he would not see that gift destroyed or worse, given into the hands of an orc or the jaws of a wild animal.

Perhaps someday his friends would forgive him.

* * *

Fíli pulled absently on one of his braids as he stared at the polished redwood of his writing desk. It had been a gift from one of the Dale craftsmen named Brandt, whose son had been caught under a collapsed building after the Battle of Five Armies. Fíli had been in Dale three days after the Battle; he happened to be taking a rare break, walking through a shattered courtyard, when he'd heard it:

A tiny cry, weak and small: "Someone help me! Anyone!"

He'd rushed to the pile of rubble where the sound came from, began yanking cracked wood planks and massive stones off, tossing them every which way.

All he could remember was thinking, _Never again will one die because I lack the strength or fortitude to save them._

_Never again will one suffer Thorin's needless fate on my account._

_Never, Uncle. I'll do better._

Young Halden had been saved that day, the collapsing beams and boulders having created a small void, just large enough for the child to fit in. He had been relatively unharmed; only weak from hunger and thirst.

Brandt had presented Fíli with the desk several weeks later, refused to let him pay for it, and expressed his thanks in terms both eloquent (for his family had been members of the Court of Dale before Smaug came) and effusive.

Fíli ran his fingers over the silky-smooth polished wood, back and forth, barely noticing what he was doing.

He'd been filled with that same desperate fear last night when he'd found Kíli at his door, hair askew, face white, eyes wide and dark and full of terror. It had been Halden all over again as he looped an arm around his little brother's shaking shoulders and drew him into the chamber, settling him down and hearing what he had to say.

_Thorin's fate will not be his. The Shadow cannot have him._

_I will save him. _

_I'll do better._

Fíli sighed. He knew there was little else he could do at this point; the mithril magic was ready—or as ready as he could make it with his (and Balin's) current knowledge. He'd been shoring up his fledgling military with warriors on loan from Dain—who, despite his stubbornness and general bad temper, still acknowledged Fíli and Kíli as family and would do anything he could to protect them. Fíli had secured promise of aid from both Thranduil and Bard should Melkor show up at the Mountain to claim Kíli for his own; he had appealed to the Dunedain as well as the Beornings for the same.

He'd even gone so far as to gather contacts from Ryn before she left, people she'd had dealings with during her years on the road; vagabond Men and Dwarves who could be…_persuaded_…to fight for his cause, if his pockets were deep enough.

Fortunately for Fíli, he had just about the deepest pockets in all of Middle Earth.

The Mountain was ready. Melkor would never be able to wrest it from the dwarves of Erebor, not unless he managed to destroy half of the Free Peoples in the process.

Yet for all his preparation, for all his meticulous planning and foresight, for all his sleepless nights, lying awake trying to think of _one more thing_ he could do to keep Kíli safe, he could not prevent the Dark Vala from infiltrating his brother's mind. Suddenly angry, Fíli stood abruptly and swept the parchments and inkwells littering the desk onto the thickly-carpeted floor. He slammed his palm into the top of it with a roar of impotent rage. The sturdy furniture _thunked_ with the force of it, but did not break.

He did not deserve such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, any more than he deserved to be entrusted with one so precious as his _nadadith_.

If _he_ had been the one to leave his barrel that cursed day on the Forest River…

If _he_ had seen Bolg's bow pulled taut with a poisoned arrow…

If _he_ had prevented Kíli from ever having been shot by a morgul shaft…

If _he_ had…

"Fíli?"

The King whirled to find Sêla standing just inside the door, worry etched clearly into her lovely face.

Mahal knew, he didn't deserve her either.

"What's happened, my love?" she murmured, dropping the basket she had brought and coming to stand before him. She brushed an unruly strand of hair out of his face and ran her fingertips down his bearded jaw. "Is it Kíli?"

He clenched his teeth and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Tell me, Fíli," she said, her voice low and soothing. "Let me help you."

Fíli bowed his head. "You cannot," he croaked. He hated how vulnerable he sounded, even to his own ears. "There is nothing you can do."

She simply stood, running her thumb over his damp cheek, refusing to let his gaze go.

"I've tried, Sêla, for Mahal's sake, I've tried," he was almost begging, for what he did not know. Her understanding, perhaps? "I have done everything I know to do to protect him from Morgoth, but…I cannot save him from his own mind."

Sêla blinked furiously, blue eyes shining with unshed tears. "He is despairing, then."

Shamefaced, Fíli nodded.

She shifted closer to him, standing on tiptoe to press a sweet kiss to his lips. "You must not give up, Fíli," she whispered. "If he has lost faith, you cannot. You must hold on, for Kíli."

"I have failed him." The words tasted like ash in Fíli's mouth.

"_No_," Sêla countered, her forehead pressed hard against his. "No, you have not failed him; he is not lost to us yet."

_Not yet._

Fíli felt his heart swell at her words; she was right, Kíli was still _theirs_. There was still time, still strength left in both the Sons of Durin.

He had to endure, for his _nadadith_. For Kíli's beloved, and his friend. For their mother, who had lost so much already. For the sweet lass stroking his hair and whispering encouragement against his brow.

He would endure.

The resolution made his chest ache, and he pulled Sêla even closer. He pressed soft kisses to each of her cheeks, her nose, and finally her lips. Mahal knew, he did not deserve her any more than he deserved Kíli. But the Valar had seen fit to gift him with both of them, and he'd be damned if he simply gave up when the road got treacherous.

* * *

Dis couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips as she quietly shut the door to the Eastern Watchtower and turned.

_Ah, I knew it._

Kíli sat leaning against one of the stone pillars, looking toward the already-risen sun; she wondered that he was still out here, he usually only came to watch the sun come up, then got on with his day. Softly, she walked toward him.

Fíli had told her last night had been rough, though he'd not been forthcoming with any details. To be fair, she hadn't asked; Fíli had seemed upset enough that she knew it was bad. So she'd rushed out to search for her younger son, knowing he probably wouldn't want her, but that didn't matter.

He _needed_ her.

It had taken a shamefully long time for it to occur to her that he might be up at the Watchtower still; she had checked his chambers, the training grounds, even the nearest pub before realizing it. And now here he was, eyes closed as he slumped against the marble.

Dis took a second to study him before he noticed her presence. Kíli was pale, and the dark circles that ringed his eyes bespoke of many sleepless nights, of late. He seemed thinner, too, and she tried to remember the last time she'd seen him eat.

It had been too long, she knew that for certain.

_Oh, my son. What are you doing to yourself, lad?_

Fighting back a wave of guilt—she was their mother, after all, she should've forced him to see her sooner—Dis sat beside Kíli, who opened tired eyes without so much as a jolt of alertness like she would've expected from him.

"Ma?" he murmured in a small voice. Dis' heart broke.

"I am here, _inúdoy_," she answered, reaching up and brushing an errant strand of dark hair from his face. She let the motion continue, stroking Kíli's head tenderly, remembering how it had soothed him as a lad. His eyes fluttered closed again, and he turned his head into her hand, silently begging her not to stop. Dis smiled.

She wasn't going anywhere.

"You should have come to me," she murmured softly. "I cannot fix what ails you, but I will always be here to help you through it." She knew he was listening because a small grimace flashed over his face, gone a second later.

"Didn't want to burden you…" he slurred, sounding exhausted.

Tears choked her as she continued caressing his hair. "Never, Kíli. Your burdens are mine, do you hear me?" She leaned forward and kissed his brow, pulling him to lean against her. He came willingly, not even putting up a token struggle, and Dis wasn't sure if she was glad of it or heartbroken.

Her youngest was more weakened than she knew, it seemed. He had pushed too hard, taken too much alone, shut her and Fíli out until the weight he carried crushed him.

"Kíli," she whispered, rocking gently with her son wrapped in her arms. "Do not give up. You must fight him, you _must_."

Kíli stiffened at that. "I cannot," he whimpered. "_Amad_, I am spent."

"A raven arrived late last night," she answered. "It was from Ryn."

He lifted his head, a wild hope alight in his dark eyes, and Dis smiled. "It was a small message only, but meant for your ears, I believe."

"What did she say?"

"_Ambushed by orchadân in Dol Guldur, but Enemy is not there_," Dis quoted, and Kíli tensed instantly. "_All is well, the dawn comes quickly now."_ Her son stilled, as though letting the words sink in. When he said nothing, Dis added, "she signed it _idúzhib-më._"

Kíli blinked big brown eyes at her, a gentle blush rising in his cheeks. Dis had not been a widow so long that she did not remember what the endearment meant, and she grinned. Kíli looked down with a small grunt.

"She said all that?"

"She did."

The lad simply sat, still leaning against Dis' soft shoulder; and she didn't move, didn't press him as he took shaky breaths to calm the tears she suspected he was hiding.

"It's a code," he said finally, quietly. "She says she's nearly there, that they're very close to having the _Umräd_ in hand."

Dis had suspected as much, but was relieved to hear it, nevertheless. Kíli, while he was making no effort to move from her side, had stopped trembling, and his voice was stronger already.

"She'll not fail you, Kíli," the Princess answered. "None of us will. You are not alone."

Next to her, Kíli simply nodded, then leaned again on her shoulder, closing his eyes. "So tired, ma…"

"Then sleep."

"Keep the bast'rd out 'f my head f'r a while?" he mumbled.

"I will chase him off myself," Dis answered thickly, knowing she couldn't, but that she would do literally anything to be able to protect her son from this agony. And if that meant standing guard while he slept, so be it. "I will stay with you."

She kissed his forehead, and he settled against her, breathing deeply already.

* * *

A/N:** Thanks for reading, everyone!** Hope you're all having a wonderful holiday season!

I've embarked on a new project: a collaboration with my writing pal, **Summerald**, and it's a hit! We're shamelessly exploiting a plot hole left (_deliberately?_) by Peter Jackson and the film team, creating a tantalizing 'what if?' story. It's called Wayfarers, and Chapter Four will be up early next week! It's on our joint writer profile **Summerandblue,** feel free to check it out-and follow us to stay apprised of any other collaborations that may come up!

You won't regret it, I guarantee that much.

As for Ryn and Co, this story is already planned to the finish-so fear not, I'll never abandon it incomplete! Updates will still come regularly-and things are about to really pick up, so stick with us. Everyone is a bit frustrated and depressed right now, as is often the case in tough situations-the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and all that.

**Please leave me a note or review, tell me what you think! Your feedback is fuel for my writer brain!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Disclaimer:** Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

**A/N:** Welcome to 2015, everyone! This month marks one year since I began writing the _Erebor Reclaimed Series_, and I'm frankly shocked at the realization. It's been such a journey; and while I can't say I've enjoyed _every_ moment of it, the brilliant ones have far outweighed the frustrating and sometimes-downright-infuriating ones.

And a good portion of that is due to you, my readers. _ Âkminrûk zu!_

Special thanks to **drwatsonn** and **Celebrisilweth** for their reviews, and to **summerald** for her A+ beta work! And to the rest, for reading and following; I see you, you silent fans, and I am infinitely grateful for your support!

Don't forget, Summer and I have begun a new story under the joint pen name **summerandblue**! The story is called _Wayfarers_, and is a fun foray into 'what if?' territory. I am inordinately proud of it and think you should definitely go check it out.

So without further blathering from me...enjoy the chapter!

* * *

Ryn put one foot in front of the other, barely noticing the soft rug beneath her feet or the silent elf queen waiting halfway across the room.

_One step._

_Another, makes two. Three, four, five. Six steps._

_Turn._

_Six more the other direction._

_Stop. Look at the blasted letter._

_Breathe, keep your heart from beating out of your chest._

_One step. Two, three, four, five._

_Six._

"He is gone." Galadriel's voice cut through her impending panic, though the words did nothing to calm her. She nodded jerkily, flapping the single scrap of parchment once in answer.

She didn't trust her voice.

"Does he say where or why?"

She shook her head, turning to face the roaring fire in his guest chambers. Elof loved the heat, she had discovered early in their friendship. All those years spent in an abandoned stone city, dead and cold, in a mountain climate...the poor lad hadn't been properly warm in ten years when she met him. When he'd joined them in Erebor after visiting his mother, his first thought had been of how to remain warm in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Fíli had taken great pride in relating to the lad how the strategically-placed vents and massive furnaces kept living quarters heated even in the dead of winter.

An involuntary grin quirked her lips upward at the memory of his wide-eyed awe. She choked on the image a moment later, turning away from Galadriel in an attempt to salvage some of her composure. The elf queen gave her some space, and Ryn faced her a moment later.

"He's probably gone to his mother in Edoras," she answered the earlier question. "All the note says is that 'it's too dangerous for me to remain with you.' Do you think he suspected he was under some enchantment?"

Galadriel nodded slowly. "It is possible. Indeed, likely. Some can sense it when they are not entirely their own person."

The lass was unreasonably angered by the idea. "The idiot!" She kicked the mantle, glaring vehemently at the smooth wood as though it had personally affronted her. Galadriel said nothing, though her expression requested explanation, which Ryn was only too happy to provide. "If he knew he wasn't right, why did he not allow us to help him? Why run? Why-"

"Ryn?" Talos chose that moment to dash through the door. "What's happened? Orodreth said it was..." The lad petered off at the sight of the tall, golden-haired elleth standing near the bed. "...urgent."

Galadriel's face lit up in a smile, despite the situation. "Talos, Son of Dalos, of the Iron Hills. The Searcher." Ryn's brother blinked, clearly stunned into silence, as many were the first time they met the Queen of Lorien. "We have heard of your exploits even this far West; yea, and further," she continued. "The one who traversed three kingdoms in search of a lost sister. You are a legend, _mellon_, and I am honored to make your acquaintance." With that, she ducked her head respectfully, and Talos' eyes very nearly bugged out of his head entirely.

Ryn couldn't even bring herself to smile at his shock.

"He's gone, Talos," she said instead, as soon as she was certain Galadriel had finished. "Elof up and ran, left me a note. A _note_." She bit back tears at the sting of it. "He could be in danger, and now he's left us, and we don't have _time_ to be running off after him, he _knows this_."

Talos looked completely mystified. "Danger? What danger...how…._why_ would he….?"

"My lady!" A young elf—their equivalent of a page, Ryn had learned—entered the room at a dead run. "My apologies," he muttered to the dwarves before turning back to his queen. "My lady, the guards report the Human has departed our lands to the East. He…" the young elf's eyes flicked to the guests in the room. Galadriel raised one regal brow, encouraging the lad to continue. The youngling swallowed before speaking again. "He..._commandeered_...one of the boats. Left a few coins and headed east, toward the Anduin. They would have stopped him, but for your orders that the Companions were allowed to go whither they would. We did not know where to find you…"

Galadriel waved off his apology gently. "You have done well, Thalias. Bring me Äre and Daeruith, please." The page dashed off, and Ryn spoke up.

"Please, my lady, we must go after him. Can you send someone to bring him back?" But Galadriel was shaking her head.

"He is a free man," she countered. "If he wishes to leave my lands, he may. We cannot force him to return, or else what is the difference between us and the Enemy who held him against his will mere days ago?"

Ryn swayed back on her heels, blinking in shock at that answer. "The _difference_? The difference is we care about him and he's a danger to himself and perhaps others until you help him…"

"I cannot do anything for him if he does not wish it," the Queen countered, raising a hand to forestall Ryn's angry spluttering. "But you are right: the boy is in danger. I will send my two best scouts to trail him and prevent him hurting himself or another."

Ryn swallowed her disappointment, sensing that this was the best she was going to get for her friend now. Her gaze flicked to Talos, who still looked rather confused but seemed to grasp the more obvious and important aspects of the conversation.

She clenched Elof's note in her hand, thinking of the last part—the bit she had only but skimmed moments ago, still trying to accept that her friend was gone—and wondering if Talos, too, would leave her before the end.

_You must open it alone, Ryn, I am sorry. I had planned to do it myself, to keep this burden from your already-laden shoulders, but I cannot. It is too dangerous…_

"Very well," she answered quietly. "Come Talos, it is time for us to take our leave as well. Every moment we delay, Kíli suffers."

* * *

"My Lord, King Bard of Dale has arrived."

Fíli didn't even look up from the maps strewn across the large oak table. "Excellent, send him right in, please."

Greeting rulers from other kingdoms was usually a production in itself, with Fíli's valets dressing him in velvet and heavy gold from toe to crown, a formal meeting in the Hall of Kings, and long pleasantries exchanged before business could begin.

But Bard had even less patience for such nonsense than Fíli did, so when one King visited the other, the welcome was much more that of a friend and less of a monarch. Both preferred it that way; and it was rather a point of pride amongst their subjects, who loved seeing their Kings act as fellows and confidants.

"It sounds as though you have news," the former bargeman said without preamble as he entered Fíli's study. The dwarf King looked up, regarding his friend with a welcoming smile and extending a hand.

"Well met, _buhél_. I do indeed have news."

The kings clasped one another's forearms briefly, then bent over the large map together. "Melkor has made a grave misstep in dealing with my brother," Fíli said. "He thought to torture him with visions of possible futures, and in the process, Kíli has seen his plans."

Bard tried—unsuccessfully—to stifle a sound of distress, for he and Kíli were fast friends. Fíli gave him a sympathetic nod.

"Believe me, I know," he assured. "But I sent Mother after him an hour ago. I'm told he is resting, comforted by her presence. It is the most we can ask for now, for Kíli to be surrounded by those who love him."

"Keep me informed of anything I can do to help on that front," Bard said seriously.

"I believe the only thing that will provide Kíli any lasting relief at this point is the healing powers of the _Umräd_," Fíli answered, brow furrowed with worry. "Our job is to keep the bastard away from him physically."

Bard looked up abruptly at that. "So what we feared has indeed come to pass? The Dark One has a physical form?"

"Not that we know of. What we do know—well, suspect—is that he is amassing an army in the giant caverns beneath the Grey Mountains to the North."

"A bit unoriginal," Bard remarked, obviously remembering the Battle, barely a year ago, that had featured fifteen thousand orcs invading from the same direction.

"Aye," Fíli agreed. "Though at least this time he is staying underground to avoid alerting the forests and wildlife—and through our allies that speak to them, us. But Kíli has seen it."

"Have we any evidence other than Kíli's vision?" Bard asked. "Not that I don't trust your brother, but is it not just as likely something the Dark One _intended_ for him to see? A deliberate deception, perhaps?"

Fíli nodded. "I thought the same, so I've sent ravens to both Thranduil and Duron, King of Ered Mithrin. Thranduil has the lightest scouts, and Duron's folk live in those mountains." He pointed to a spot on the map, much further north than most sane free folk would live. "Albeit further west. But if there is a massive army gathering, they'll know it."

Bard nodded, studying the map. "If they do indeed come from the Mountains," he said, tracing the path the orc army had taken nearly two years ago, "they will not find us unprepared as last time." His gaze met Fíli's, fierce. "We will be ready for him."

"Indeed we will. It is why I asked you to come," Fíli answered. When his companion's head tilted in question, he smiled. "To brief you on the Mountain's defenses and discuss a battle plan."

Bard's answering grin was wolfish.

* * *

Inside the same Mountain, several levels down, another battle plan was being discussed.

"Can you think of any way for Fíli and me to announce our wishes to Father without bringing down the wrath of Mahal himself?" Sêla griped, flopping unceremoniously onto her bed, staring at the hard stone ceiling of the chamber she shared with her sister.

"Unfortunately, no," Anora muttered, not looking up from the missive she was writing. "He is going to be magnificently furious no matter how you tell him."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"But I will say this," Anora continued, now looking up from her parchment and fixing her sister with a stern gaze. "The longer you wait, the more angry he will be."

"And rightly so," the younger agreed, sighing. "And what of you, _namad_?"

Anora went back to her message. "What of me?"

Sêla propped herself up on an elbow, scowling slightly. "You know _'what of you'_. Have you considered Fíli's offer?"

Anora paused, finishing her missive with a flourish, then stood without a word. Sêla watched her as she crossed the room, stopped in front of the bed, and held out the document. Sitting up, Sêla took it slowly.

"What's this?"

Anora sat quietly on her bed, motioned for Sêla to read it.

_To Fíli, Son of Dis, King Under the Mountain,_

_It is with great pleasure I accept your offer of a position in the King's Guard, pledging to protect my king and his family with my axe, my wits, and my life, should the need arise. I am grateful and humbled to be given an opportunity to serve in this manner, and intend to continue thus until my Lord release me or death take me._

_With this statement, I hereby willingly place myself under the direct authority of the King in all matters of security and protection; and pledge to follow all orders, participate in all training, obey all directives set down by him to this end._

_Respectfully,_

_Anora, Daughter of Tefur_

Sêla stared at the document for a moment, uncertain how to feel about it. Clearly, her sister had not taken this decision lightly-she practically radiated gravity from her place a few feet away-and Sêla knew Anora had longed for such a life since they were children. This was a dream come true for her, that much the lass knew.

But it was also a little bit terrifying. Sêla thought, with some trepidation, of the year Fíli and Kíli had spent in terrible danger while on the Quest; of the nightmares, visions of golden braids muddied and mussed and soaked in blood, of the late night teas with Lady Dis as they both struggled to convince themselves that no danger could steal their lads from them…

And while Fíli was still a prime target, as King Under the Mountain, Anora would be even more so, obligated as she was to jump in front of him should he indeed be marked.

The thought was less than comforting.

"What say you?" Anora asked softly, almost in a whisper. Sêla looked at her sister, her closest friend in all of Arda, and shoved those terrors back so a genuine smile could spread over her face.

"I am happy for you, _arzamúl_," she said, deliberately using the oldest endearment she could remember to communicate her sincerity. "I am proud of you."

Anora blinked, then slowly, her lips turned upward in a quiet smile. Before she quite registered it, Sêla found herself wrapped up in her sister's embrace.

"Thank you, _namadith_."

Sêla just laughed and settled into the hug. "Yes well," she responded, her words muffled against Anora's dress. "Now we both have to tell Father something he'll not want to hear."

Anora deflated a little at that, pulling away. "Indeed." She pulled at a curl, a nervous habit that made Sêla smile sympathetically. "He will be so angry with us both."

Sêla shook her head, taking Anora's hands in hers. "We must remember _why_ we do this. Neither of us are made for simply hanging on some lord's arm, whom we cannot love anyway. You were born a fighter, and I? I was born to be a quiet helper to Fíli—"

"—And a queen—"

"—and no other. Anora," Sêla pulled their foreheads together in a dwarfy embrace. "Silly marriage customs aside, Mother and Father both want us to be happy. If we approach them with respect and plead our cases logically—and passionately—they will come around. I have to believe that."

Anora nodded a little, but did not reply. Sêla wasn't surprised; she'd always been the optimistic one—'hopelessly idealistic', some said—and Anora usually less so.

But that's why they were sisters. Sêla smiled and took her _namad's_ hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

And that was how Tefur found them several minutes later, sitting on one bed with their foreheads touching, eyes closed and red hair tumbling down both girls' backs.

"Ah, my daughters," he announced his presence with a smile that turned to a laugh when they both startled jerkily. Noting their pale faces and troubled expressions, the dwarf glanced from one lass to the other. "Is all well?"

They glanced at one another in confidence, a gesture he recognized as one they had employed often growing up—usually when they had just, or were about to, get into trouble.

"We both have...something to tell you, Father," Anora said. Sêla took a deep breath.

"Well that is a happy chance!" Tefur laughed, relieved that's all it was; a bit of news. "I, too, have an announcement to make."

* * *

_Buhél—_Khuzdul, "friend"

_Namad—_Khuzdul, "sister"

_Arzamúl—_Khuzdul, "one in whom I have faith"

_Namadith—_Khuzdul, "little sister"


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Sêla followed her sister as she stood from the bed, moving toward the door—obviously headed for the dining chamber, where most of their family discussions took place. Father shook his head.

"Nay, lassies, but we will speak here first. Please, sit."

Both girls did as requested, sinking onto Sêla's bed while Father settled himself on Anora's, mere feet away. He smiled at them both, studying their faces.

"The news I have may grieve you," he began. "But I think you will see the benefit of it very quickly." Sêla felt herself go cold all over, while a pit of dread settled in her stomach.

_Oh, I am not going to like this._

"Sêla," Father addressed her, the look on his face nothing short of adoring. "My lovely youngest. I have found you a suitor."

_I was right._

Father's pronouncement met absolute silence. Sêla could barely breathe, could hear her heart beating loudly in her ears, felt heavy and lightheaded all at once.

_Fíli…_

"What?" Anora's near-screech made Sêla jump. She looked over, wondering when her sister had stood up. Anora's fists were clenched, her eyes blazing, teeth bared. She looked like an overprotective mama bear protecting a cub. Father sat back, staring at his eldest daughter, astounded.

"Anora, sit down!" he ordered. She didn't, not immediately, but after a minute she obeyed; settling closer to Sêla this time, her frame practically vibrating with tension.

_Oh, namad._

"His name is Baren, son of Baren, Third of That Name; he is a wealthy Lord in the Iron Hills and he is very—"

"The Iron Hills?" Sêla squeaked. Mahal, but she had just settled in _here_, with her _family_, and now he wanted to cart her off to the Iron Hills to live with complete strangers?

Father looked sympathetic. "It is not far, Daughter. Your mother and I—and Anora, when she has time—will visit often. And Baren has three sisters—three!—so you'll never be lonely for company. I know it seems frightening—"

"I'm not marrying Fíli."

Complete silence again. Sêla would've laughed if her world hadn't just been turned upside down.

"What?" Father turned his attention to Anora, completely shocked. "Why not? You grew up with the lad, I thought you loved him…?"

"I do!" Anora protested. "I love him dearly, Father, as my friend, and that might have been enough for me to be able to have a life with him, except that…" she petered off, glancing at Sêla.

Father's eyes widened. "Except what, Anora?"

"Except that I've been in love with him for ages," Sêla answered, quietly. "Since long before they left for Erebor."

Father said nothing, just stared, his gaze shifting between the two girls as if expecting the whole thing to be one grand joke.

_Well, this was not what I had in mind when I intended to break it to him gently…_

"And he feels the same, Father, we…" _Oh Mahal._ "We wish to court properly and marry."

Sêla chanced a look at Tefur, heart thumping when she noticed his gaze go dark.

"He has claimed your heart already?"

Sêla looked to Anora for help. Her sister nodded once—_I'm here, namadith_—and Sêla took a deep breath.

"Yes."

Father stood abruptly, and Sêla leaned back a little to see his face. His eyes were focused on the distance, his jaw clenched, a flush making its way up his neck and into his face. Sêla had only seen him like this once before, and it had not ended well for the lad who angered him so.

She shuddered.

"The whelp went behind my back to steal my youngest?"

"No, Father—" Anora tried to interrupt.

"Silence!" he roared. "I was wrong about him, so very wrong. Fíli and Kíli grew up beside my family, good lads, honorable lads. But clearly something has changed, and not for the better."

"We meant to speak to you as soon—" Sêla cut in.

"But you did not." Father wasn't even shouting now, his voice a well of quietly controlled fury. "So be it. The lad shall have nothing. Come, Sêla, Anora; it's time to meet Baren. You will go with him tomorrow, Sêla, and your sister and mother and I will follow in a few weeks, as soon as we can arrange to have our things packed up for the trip."

_No. No no no no…_

"Father, please!"

"I am sorry, let me get him, we'll make this right—"

"Silence!" Father's gaze was hard and cold. "It is too late, Sêla, you are Promised already. Not another word, from either of you. Come."

* * *

Kíli's dark eyes popped open on the edge of a gasp. He sat up quickly, blinking at the dizziness that assaulted him before steadying himself and looking around. His mother looked up from the book she was reading and smiled.

"How do you feel, my son?"

Kíli blinked again, noting with some surprise that he _did _actually feel better. His head ached less now that there weren't horrible scenes of death painted on the underside of his eyelids; and his chest didn't feel like someone was squeezing the life out of it with every breath.

He was even _hungry_.

"Like I could eat a whole boar," he replied, and was rewarded when Dis smiled brilliantly.

"Well then. Let's see if we can arrange that, shall we?"

Kíli managed a smile for her and threw aside the covers, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and hopping down to the cold floor. The shock felt good against his warm skin.

Something was different, though, he could sense it. He was more rested, certainly, felt better than he had in weeks; but he didn't know why. Curiously, he probed at the nub in his mind that he knew connected him to Ryn—perhaps something exceedingly good had happened to her?

But no, all he felt were echoes of fear and doubt.

His poor lass. He wanted to hold her so badly his heart positively _ached_. He needed to touch her, see her, hear her voice.

_Soon_, he sensed.

Still wondering about his feeling of well-being, he explored his memory. Had he had a good dream? But he found he couldn't really remember; there was a fuzzy impression of majesty and infinite wisdom, and three words rang in his head, spoken in a voice deep and soothing.

_It is time._

Then a quick vision of Ryn beside him, fire pooling in her hands and ice in his.

Then nothing.

"—Kíli?" his mother was asking. The Prince startled, coming back to the present.

"Mother?"

She looked concerned, stroking his cheek gently. "I asked if you're feeling all right. You swayed a bit on your feet."

"Ah, yes," he hastened to assure her, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "I am well. Just the echoes of an odd dream."

"A night terror?"

Kíli wasn't sure how to answer. "No no, not exactly. Just...I feel..._different_. Stronger, I suppose." Dis smiled at that, and Kíli answered with one of his own. "Thank you."

Dis wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him in for a hug. "For what, my son?" He didn't answer, only held her tightly against him, grateful beyond measure for her comfort.

She needed no answer.

After a moment, though, she pulled back. "Come now. We should get you something to eat. And inform Fíli of your state. In fact," she bustled away from him, straightening his tunic and smoothing his hair down. "We shall do both at once. Fíli likely hasn't stopped to eat either, so we'll get food and go to him."

Kíli just smiled—a natural, genuine one this time.

He counted it a small victory.

* * *

_Dearest Ryn,_

_Please forgive me for what I am to do in only moments. I am not abandoning you, nor am I rejecting you or Talos; you both have given me what no one in the world—save my parents—have, and that is companionship. Love, without boundary or condition. You have been everything I lacked these past ten years, and for that I can never truly thank you properly._

_But I can save you, and that is why I must leave. It is too dangerous for me to be near either of you, my very existence is a blight upon your quest. Kíli is depending on you, Ryn, to see this through; and I'll not stand in your way, deliberately or no..._

Ryn stuffed the letter back into her leather corset as she heard Talos stir behind her. The sun was rising in a riot of color to her left, the silent peaks of the Misty Mountains rising sharply to her right, cobalt in the morning light. Talos stumped off to a nature call, and Ryn sighed softly, sharp eyes watching for any unnatural movement.

She hated that Elof's letter sounded like a final goodbye. It was bad enough that the lad had run off on his own, deliberately placing himself out of her reach, or that of the elves, or anyone who could help him.

Worse still, he seemed convinced that his situation was hopeless, that it was permanent.

Ryn refused to accept that. As soon as Kíli was whole and hale, she was going to find Elof and help him, too. Certainly, the young Man had suffered as few ever do; and needlessly so, ten years a prisoner. He likely remembered very little of what it was to be a free man, even.

But she was not a descendant of the Master Healers for nothing. Together with Elof's mother, who he had told her was still alive and happy outside Edoras, she would help him come to terms with his young adulthood and learn to move on. She would mend whatever damage had been done to his mind, to his body, to his _spirit_; and she would live to see him set his grandchildren on his knee.

This she swore.

"Morning," Talos muttered, flopping down next to her, his back against a felled tree trunk. Ryn spared him a small smile and handed him a cup of hot tea.

"So it is, _nadadith_. Did you rest well?"

He grunted an affirmative as he sipped the tea. "Mahal, I cannot wait to get back to Erebor," he muttered. "At least there they have coffee."

Ryn rolled her eyes. "The elves were very gracious to give us stores; you should be thankful."

"I am," Talos quipped. "But I'm also craving something richer than this herby, minty tea."

Ryn chuckled slightly as she banked the fire, stirring the embers with a stick and scattering them loosely, stomping out any live ones she could find. "I do miss dwarvish cooking," she admitted. "We'll have to get Bombur to make us a stew when we return."

With a slight jolt, Ryn realized it was the first time in months she had given any thought at all to _After_. After Kíli was healed, after they returned home, after Melkor was defeated.

There would be stew, and laughter, and warm nights wrapped up in her beloved's arms…

And her wedding.

She almost smiled again. There was to be a wedding. With friends, and family, and everything she never thought she would have…

But no.

First she had to reach Fjallstadr. First she had to open the Vault…

Elof's letter came to mind again, like a punch in the gut.

_You must open it alone, Ryn, I am sorry. I had planned to do it myself, keep this burden from your already-laden shoulders, but I cannot. It is too dangerous for me to be near. You must open the Vault. I know what it means to ask this of you; but it is Kíli's only hope._

"How much further south do you think we ought to go?" Talos' voice interrupted her ruminations before her mind could take her somewhere from which she'd have trouble returning. Blinking, she gave a thought to his question.

"Two days, if all goes well," she answered slowly. "The forest is not far. Then we turn west."

Talos nodded. "Then we turn west."

* * *

Hundreds of leagues north, two elves—one flaxen-haired and one fiery—ducked silently into one of the many caves in the side of the Grey Mountains. Scat, blood, and remains of dead things had led them here, and still led them onward. Deep into the mountains they ran, in an effort to identify a threat.

Tauriel looked at Legolas when they met the first torch in the wall, crude and filthy, but effective.

They had reached the orcs of the North.

* * *

**A/N:** **Thank you** for reading, as always! You guys seriously rock. Things are going to pick up even further from here, we're coming into the Endgame-though it will last a good while, the setup is such that there's going to be more and more cliffhangers for you guys.

Sorry I'm not sorry. :P

Meanwhile, please hop over to the profile **summerandblue** and check out my joint work with **summerald** (who has incredible talent and great stories on her own profile!), a fixit!BOFA AU called _Wayfarers_. This last chapter was one of those where I finished it, took a look, and decided I was actually _really_ proud of what I'd just done-and believe it or not, all chapters don't feel that good.

**Thanks again for all your reviews and follows; they are fuel for my writer brain!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Back to the lore! I'll post another new chapter for y'all as soon as possible to get back to our story, but this stuff's _important_.

Huge thanks to **summerald** for her help!

* * *

_Year 3376, The Second Age_

The wind blew harsh and cold through the valley, though the sun shone brightly in the early spring sky. Atop the stone tower, ten lithe figures waited in a circle, robes whipped by the breeze. They were a mix of men and women, the Heads of the ten most prominent Eiri families in all of Fjallstadr. Straight-backed and proud they were, strong and fair of skin, with lightly colored eyes and hair. With them, in a loose circle surrounding the ones the Eiri leaders created, stood representatives from each of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth: Men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Skinchangers. At a nod from a guard, signaling that all were in attendance, the eldest of the Eiri held a gnarled wood staff in her hand, one end planted firmly on the marble before her.

"Estë, Vala of Healing and Peace," she prayed in a rough voice. "We have gathered as you command."

"And for that I am grateful," a gentle voice answered. Many of the gathered folk stared, and some gasped outright at the Vala who appeared in their midst quite suddenly-a being of light with eyes of deepest blue and golden hair that outshone the sun. She wore a dress of pale green which hung loosely on her slender frame. Beside her, a similar figure walked; except that he was robed in gray and had hair black as night. His eyes bespoke endless wisdom and unfathomable sadness, though he held himself tall beside his companion. Estë nodded in respect.

"My people," she began. "A shadow has befallen your world." They said nothing, not daring to contradict her, but she could sense their confusion. Since the fall of Númenor, her people—and the children of Eru and Mahal—had flourished in Arda. They had established kingdoms, cities, societies, alliances. She had watched from afar with pleasure as souls came to her Gardens after living longer and longer lives. But it could not last, this she knew.

"Let not fifty-seven years of peace and plenty deceive you," her husband—for it was Irmo who had accompanied her—declared, in a tone that bespoke doom. Several of the gathered allies stood up straighter. "For He who instigated the Fall of Man still roams free. He will not stay quietly in the shadows forever."

"His Will is bent toward Middle Earth," Estë picked up the speech seamlessly. "He wishes to control it, to have dominion over all its inhabitants, and he will not rest until he has accomplished his goal."

"What are we to do?" an Eiri—Brandt by name, Estë recognized him as the Head of the Vorðr Clan, the Warrior-Healers—asked. His deep green eyes held determination, not fear, and the Vala felt a rush of pride in her people. She inclined her head to him in a gesture of respect, and his ears turned pink, though he did not shrink back or look away from her.

"My husband, Irmo, and I have come to you bearing Gifts," she answered him. "All the peoples of Middle Earth combined cannot fight back the Darkness which will one day spread. It is too strong. _He_ is too strong." She shuddered, and Irmo spoke.

"We have created two mighty Gifts which will assist you in your fight," he said. "Estë's gift is for the Eiri alone, for the rest of you have not the power to wield it. Ten stones, taken from the Heart of the Earth and imbued with the power of the purest nature in Valinor, given for Healing."

Estë brought out the first, a smooth blue stone which seemed to glow from within. It was shot through with veins of clear quartz, giving it the distinct appearance of a river running. She held it out to the eldest, the Matriarch of the Niordë Clan. "_Lógrith_, The Stone of Waters," she announced. "It will Heal any injury inflicted by nature." The woman took it, with a low bow, and held it in her cupped hands.

"It is quite cool," she observed softly.

"It is well-noted," Estë answered. "Each stone retains the properties of the Force from which it was taken, though all will burn hot when being used."

Eight more gems, she gave: _Aldrnari_, The Stone of Fire; _Keldavär_, The Verdant Stone; _Valdyr_, The Wolfstone; _Veðr_, The Stone of Air; _Hrjóta_, the Hawkstone; _Skërvin_, The Earthen Stone; _Sjarnë_, the Diamond Stone; and _Naðr_, The Stone of the Serpent.

Finally, she stood before Brandt, smiling as she bestowed upon him the last one. "This," she said softly, "is the _Umräd_, the Starstone. Its power was taken from the very first Star Eru placed in the Heavens. It will heal any Wound of Darkness that Morgoth can create." She folded Brandt's fingers over the plain white gem, holding them tightly. "Protect it with everything you possess," she ordered, "for it is the Greatest of the Ten."

Brandt stood a little taller and nodded, once.

"Use these wisely and with discretion," Este spoke to the whole group now. "For they will require greater strength and a higher level of energy to utilize."

Her people nodded, and she looked at Irmo, smiled. He bowed his head and stepped forward, directly in the middle of the circle of Eiri.

"My Gift cannot be held in a hand," he said. "To the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, I give this: once in every Century, one brave defender shall step forth, in whom will be instilled a measure of my own power. The Gift will not make itself known until it is necessary, and only then by my leave. At such time, the Seer will acquire Foresight which will help him in his quest to survive against the Darkness."

Absolute silence met this announcement, until a young and proud dwarf stepped forward, his dark hair tumbling over his shoulders to meet his rich beard, which was not yet long enough to reach his chest.

"Begging your pardon, Master Irmo," the dwarf prince said. The Vala nodded.

"Durin, Son of Durin, Fifth of that Name," he acknowledged. The young dwarf prince was quickly making a name for himself in Middle Earth—even the Valar knew of his valor and reported prowess in battle, though more impressive was his evident ability to inspire confidence and loyalty in those around him.

The lad would someday lead his people as well as his fathers before him, Irmo sensed.

"How will we be able to tell who holds your Gift if there is no physical manifestation of it?" Durin asked, not rudely.

Gentle murmurs told the Vala that the dwarf lad wasn't the only one wondering that same thing. Irmo nodded once in respect. "It is a legitimate concern; however, the Seer will not be marked. You will identify him only by his Ability."

"But..._how_?"

Irmo nodded to Estë, who spoke. "Apart, these Gifts will be powerful. They will allow you, my people, to heal as many as you can; and the Seer functioning alone will still be able to tell the future. But it is together these Gifts are meant to be used."

"For when two souls unite in purpose, the Seer and the Healer," Irmo said. "The power of the Valar shall come forth from them, to the detriment of the Darkness."

"In what way?" Brandt asked.

Both Valar smiled at that, sharing a look that was very nearly conspiratorial. "In whatever way is necessary for the battle at hand," Estë answered cryptically.

The Representatives all began muttering to one another at that, surprise and intrigue thick in the air, and when Brandt turned his focus back to the Valar in their midst, he saw that they had already gone, silent and swift as they came.

His brow furrowed as he considered everything he had just learned. His clan were the only Eiri thus far to utilize their abilities in battle, and most still protested the idea doggedly; but Brandt knew how vital the protection of his people would soon become—and it seemed two of the Valar, at least, agreed with him. He thumbed the Stone that rested in his palm, cool to the touch but possessed of a fiery power.

_We have much work to do._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**Disclaimer**: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

**A/N**: Eeek! Things are picking up, as promised; I'm going to try to post more often going forward, so these cliffies aren't so very awful….

As always, summerald is the very best writing buddy ever; and thanks to all of you for your reviews and follows! The encouragement means more than I can say!

Enjoy!

* * *

"_Mahal_, this rain!" Talos shouted over the howling wind at Ryn's back. "This is ridiculous!"

Privately, the lass agreed; the massive thunderstorm that had camped out in the foothills of the Misty Mountains—right over their path—_did_ seem rather excessive, in all ways. The wind was painfully strong, gusting and blowing a freezing, driving rain all directions; the water found its way into _everything_, regardless of how well packed it was—Ryn was certain, after nearly a full day of this, there wasn't a morsel of dry food left and she was fairly sure her bowstring was ruined. Worse than that, even, was the cold: what warmth the water didn't leech the wind whipped away, with the result that both Ryn and her brother were in the early stages of cold sickness.

Still they pressed on, for she could think of no alternative. Small caves in the foothills could have provided temporary shelter, but to what end? The storm wasn't going anywhere, and they had wasted too much time already.

By Ryn's reckoning, they should be reaching the secret entrance to the Pass which would lead them to Fjallstadr any moment now. The valley would a measure of protection, and they would make better time.

"Only a little further!" she called back to her _nadadith_, hoping to bolster his resolve. "The valley will be marked by a small stone cairn, be on the lookout!"

Keeping the mountain range to her right, as it was currently her only method of navigation, Ryn turned her attention to scanning for the small stack of stones Elof had alluded to multiple times in conversations about this trip, and then again in the letter he left her. While she looked, though, she fought a small smile.

She had always loved thunderstorms, even extreme ones. She was aware it was a rather odd quirk; Aran had nearly had a heart attack the first time he found her outside during a storm. She had dashed outside when a small band of travelers stomped into the inn where they were staying, complaining of the sheer amount of water pouring from the sky. Her abrupt departure had worried her Ranger friend, and he'd followed with her cloak, only to find her in a small field behind the stables, arms out and face upturned in a rare vulnerable position.

"Deorynn!" he'd shouted, shaking her already-soaked cloak. "Get back inside before you catch your death!"

But she never had, not _once_, gotten sick from standing in the rain. Instead, she'd just given him an impish grin and run off into the nearby woods.

There was just something about the power of a storm that filled her with delighted awe, she supposed. Instead of making her feel defenseless, it made her feel safe; as though there was something at work in the world other than the forces of evil. It was a comforting feeling, one she never hesitated to take joy in.

Besides, she considered as she ran her wet palm over rough bark of a tree as she walked past, allowing the smile to tug her lips apart at the sight of diamond-like raindrops among the green leaves; there was nothing quite as beautiful as a forest in a rainstorm.

Her musings were interrupted by Talos' gloved hand on her shoulder, pulling her to a halt. She turned to him, following his pointing finger.

Lightning struck, lighting up the sky and illuminating two charred cottonwoods, trunks twisted about one another, as though they'd grown up far too close together. At their foot, a small pyramid of smooth stones, dark in the low light.

Ryn nodded to Talos and smacked his shoulder affectionately, unable to keep the smile off her face.

They were so close, now, the distance to Fjallstadr could be measured in hours, not days or weeks,_ so very close_…

She drew up sharply, yanking Talos back by his jerkin, eyes wide. He grunted his indignation, growling at her, "What, Ryn?"

Silently, she pointed this time, at the edge of the tiny valley, the rock face just behind the cairn and the twisted tree. Talos cursed vividly in Khuzdul, pulling his axes free of his back sheath and holding them defensively. Ryn did the same with her long knives—Naryaturë would do her no good in close quarters, she wasn't that good with a sword—and took a deep breath, nodding once to Talos. He nodded back, and they started forward.

They strode right past the cairn, past the twisted cottonwoods.

Past the cruel-looking etched Black Speech on the rock and the accompanying jagged rune that all travelers knew well. Orcs had beaten them to the valley, probably long ago. Ryn narrowed her eyes, letting her worry translate into anger.

She had just about _had_ it with things getting between her and the Starstone.

* * *

_Fíli, King Under the Mountain, greetings. The news is dire; orcs and War Beasts in caverns, several thousand strong. Sending five hundred, with our best wishes. Duron, King of Ered Mithrin._

"Five hundred, that's all?" Kíli's brow furrowed in worry. He, Fíli, and several of the Council and War-Generals were gathered in his brother's study, summoned when news had arrived from Ered Mithrin that morning via raven. "That's not…"

"It's more than I expected," Fíli answered, shaking his head. But it was Balin who addressed his remark.

"He has his own folk to think of, as well, laddie," the older dwarf said. "They're located practically in the heart of what the orcs doubtless view as their own territory."

Kíli quieted, nodding as he considered the implications of what that could mean for their safety. "What resources do we have, then?"

"Our own warriors are a thousand strong," Frâr replied, still looking at the map. "Five hundred from Ered Mithrin, if they get here in time. Seven hundred Men of Dale and Esgaroth have volunteered to fight—"

"Bring them here," Kíli interrupted; then tilted his head, remembering the vision Melkor had tormented him with not a day prior.

_Dale burning, its people streaming out only to meet their ends as they fled, Bard's younglings turned to ash by a ball of fire..._

Fíli interrupted his thoughts. "What?"

Slowly, Kíli continued. "Leave the Men who wish to fight inside Dale, for strategic purposes, but bring the women, elderly, and children into the Mountain." He locked eyes with his brother, growing more excited about the idea by the moment. "Yes. They will be in far less danger inside. We've plenty of room, Fee, why shouldn't we?"

Fíli stared at Kíli, and the younger knew his brother was remembering the Battle of Five armies, and the same vision of which Kíli had told him that past night. He knew his brother had to admit the idea had merit. Still, Kíli knew why he considered for a moment—refugees were no joke, and the strain it would put on Erebor's stores was considerable.

However, they were his allies, many of them his friends—and stores could be replaced.

"Agreed," Fíli finally answered. "I'll talk to Bard. The women and children of Esgaroth should be a safe distance from here, do you not think?"

Kíli nodded. "Also, Thranduil's realm is really closer to them than we are, should they require assistance. Is he with us, as well?"

"He is. He has promised us a thousand of his best should Melkor lay siege to the Mountain."

"Three thousand two hundred," Kíli murmured, resting on his knuckles as he studied the map. Beside him, Frâr turned his attention there too.

"Against who knows how many thousands," the young Captain of the Guard remarked, barely managing to mask the gloom in his tone.

"Aye," Fíli answered, but he smiled. "It is certainly familiar."

Dwalin chuckled, and even Kíli grinned a bit at that, thumping Frâr on the shoulder in a gesture of solidarity meant to encourage the lad.

"We also have one more weapon I have not told anyone but Balin about," Fíli announced. Their old mentor grinned outright at this, and Kíli cocked an eyebrow.

_What have you up your sleeve this time, brother mine?_

"We have discovered a mithril room above the Great Gate," Fíli's smile was fierce. "It is a War Room, designed to conduct the Mountain during battle."

"Conduct the…?" Rognus trailed off, confused.

Kíli shifted, still slightly uncomfortable with the idea of Fíli using mithril magic. "The Mountain is no dead thing," he answered their childhood friend. "It contains magic and life and power of its own. From that room, it sounds like Fíli can access and utilize that."

"Aye."

Frâr looked equal parts shocked and thrilled. "Then perhaps we shall prevail. For even Melkor himself is no match for the magic of Durin."

"That is untrue," Kíli argued. "It is a very definite point in our favor, to have the mithril magic; but it does not guarantee victory. Melkor's spirit, diminished though it is, is more powerful than any of us can imagine."

"Truer words never left your lips, young Son of Dis," came a blessedly familiar voice, and Kíli felt relief seep into his bones as he turned to face the Istari.

"Even I am right sometimes," he grinned crookedly. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Gandalf; what brings you to our Mountain?"

"What else?" the wizard smiled. "Mortal danger, of course."

* * *

Tauriel rested a comforting hand on Legolas' shoulder as she probed firmly at his shoulder. He released the air in his lungs between his teeth in a controlled expression of pain, his eyes the only real sign that the orc's club had actually slammed into his arm hard enough to shatter bone.

"It is not broken," she reported. "Though I think there may be some damage to the ligaments around the joint." She set to work preparing a sling from her extra tunic, mindful of his foul mood.

Between the brief scuffle with the pack of guards on the very edges of the caverns, and the subsequent capturing and interrogation of the pack leader, their last hour had been anything but pleasant. Especially considering the news they'd been given.

War was coming to Erebor. Again.

"An injury of this type will keep me from shooting," Legolas said in a low voice. It was almost vulnerable, and she looked up to note his face was nothing short of bleak. She understood; the coming battle was going to be large enough that they would need every able body. There were few who could match her Prince's skill with a bow, he would certainly be missed sorely in the fight.

"Lady Miriel should arrive soon," she tried to comfort him, shuffling over on her knees to arrange the sling. He let her, with no fuss at all, for which she was grateful. "She will be able to repair that muscle with no trouble."

She leaned over him to tie the sling, so that they were nearly in an embrace, though she was careful not to jostle his wounded arm. Legolas ran his fingers over her pointed ear as she pulled back, holding her head close to his and nuzzling their noses in a rare show of affection. Smiling, she kissed him softly, recognizing the gesture for what it was; he was hurt and disappointed and craved her touch in a way he seldom did outside of such circumstances. Wishing to make his burden lighter and ease his pain, she gave him what he needed; but they could not linger long. A moment later, she pulled back.

"_Meleth nin_," she whispered against his lips. "We must leave this place. The dwarves _must_ be warned."

Legolas nodded, and she helped him to his feet. He fixed his eyes forward, all determination and ferocity again.

"Can you run?" she asked, already knowing the answer. He turned flashing eyes on her.

"Aye. Let us be gone."

* * *

Baren, Son of Baren, certainly didn't seem like a bad sort, Sêla reflected drearily. It was unfortunate; she so badly wanted to hate him.

This whole thing would've been easier if she'd been able to hate him.

Instead, they'd spent the afternoon together; much of it with her parents and sister, but after the others retired to give them some privacy, she and the Iron Hills lad had spoken for a few more hours there in the parlor. He was confident—_almost_ arrogant, though Sêla had seen much worse in lords back home—but seemed kind. He was definitely intelligent, which engaged her inner scholar, and had a particular knack for remembering facts and figures that left her slightly jealous. They had talked at length over books her father had, stories and histories and treatises; a little of everything really.

Had her heart not already belonged to another, Sêla knew, she could have probably been happy as his wife. She probably never would've loved him the way she did Fíli—they were far too alike to be proper complements to each other—but she would've doubtless grown quite fond of the lad. They would probably have shared a comfortable sort of life together.

But it wasn't enough, not now.

She'd told Baren of Fíli, in the interest of complete honesty, and he had seemed both intimidated and jealous. The look on his face had been momentarily ugly, but then sympathetic a moment later—so fast she wondered if she'd imagined it.

"I am very sorry to hear that," he'd responded. "Unfortunately, your father and I have an agreement already. There is little I can do to help you."

Sêla had just shaken her head, knowing all that already. She hadn't expected help from that quarter.

From _any _quarter, really, since Father had forbade either her or Anora from going to inform Fíli of what was happening, and had camped out beside Anora's bed to ensure her adherence to his Word.

Sêla was to leave with Baren in the morning, and Fíli would never know until she was halfway to the Iron Hills.

Out of his reach. For once she arrived there, she was under the authority of Dain, especially since her father had agreed to and organized the match. From that moment on, there would be no hope; for Dain's folk did not allow their lasses the same freedoms Durin's folk—and most other dwarf kingdoms—did. The idea of a Lass's Choice was laughable there; the females, the orphans, and the poor were kept in their place through a complex and intricate system of manipulation and fear mongering.

Sêla tossed and turned in her bed, unable to rest. After hours of this, of her head spinning and her thoughts driving her mad, she threw aside the covers and sat up. Father sat, chin on his chest, beside Anora's bed; but he did not stir when she rose. Quietly, Sêla donned her boots and cloak, though she didn't bother changing from her long nightgown. It would take too long, make too much noise, and Father was a light sleeper at the best of times. This way, if she was caught, a simple excuse that she needed fresh air would be believable.

But she didn't need fresh air.

She was going to see Fíli.

Sêla didn't do rebellion well, that had always been Anora's purview. _Anora _was the one who trained secretly with battle axes, and dreamed of being a warrior lass, and fought Mother and Father when they tried to pair her off with stuffy lords and arrogant whelps who thought themselves better than they were. _She _was the one who demanded freedom, the fiery spirit that required room to burn. But the younger of Tefur's daughters had always been more malleable; feminine and bookish and quiet. She excelled at nurture and compassion and silent protest, when it was worth it to her to cause a stir in the family. She strove unceasingly to please her parents, the ones she cared for most in the world; and her sister, the other half of her heart. Even when those expectations clashed—which they did, _often_—Sêla slid easily into her role as peacekeeper and mediated between the two.

Such had always been her strength.

But _this_? This was too much to ask for her to take quietly.

She did not want to alienate her father; she only wanted him to _listen _to her, listen to Fíli, look into her Beloved's eyes and see what she saw.

Surely if she brought Fíli to him, he would change his mind.

_Yes._

She made it to the parlor without any trouble at all; turned the key in the lock and slid the wooden door open softly. Smiling with her success, she stepped over the threshold, holding her breath still.

Her victory had not quite rushed into her veins when she was grabbed from behind, her mouth covered with a soft cloth that smelled cloyingly sweet. She fought, gasping and fighting the urge to throw up at the overwhelming scent; then immediately a heavy sleepiness slammed into her, weakening her knees and forcing her eyelids to half-mast.

"Easy, now," she heard a chuckled whisper. "Mustn't alert your Father to our departure, eh? Can't give him time to think about your One and what that means. I didn't come all this way to return home without a wife."

Sêla fought weakly, confused, and only more so by the second. What was happening? Who had her? Part of her brain felt like she knew, but the answer slipped from her grasp anytime she got close to it. Why would her limbs not work properly?

Why was she so...very..._tired…_?

Blackness descended.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: *incoherent screaming*

Asalwaysspecialthanksto**summerald**forallherhelpandyouguysseriouslyrockokayreadit!

* * *

Ryn startled awake at the acrid scent that stung her nostrils, blinking furiously. She was supposed to be on watch, she couldn't believe she'd fallen asleep…

_Wait_.

She knew this smell, this feeling in the air. Wiping watery eyes, she stood and stepped out of the tiny overhang that had served as her and Talos' shelter for the night. She gasped, forcing back a cough, and turned to her brother's bedroll.

"Talos! Get up!"

He was awake almost instantly, poked his tousled head out of his blankets, already fumbling for his weapon. She had her bedroll stuffed into a messy roll and was buckling it to her pack.

"Ryn, wha—?"

"We've got to go _now_," she answered tightly, shouldering the pack and grabbing her bow and quiver. Talos was crawling out of his own blankets, while she looked down the tiny valley and gasped.

"Leave it!" she yanked his arm away from where he was struggling to roll the mess of fabrics up and get it onto his pack. "_Fire_, Talos, we have to run!"

He let her pull him up by the arm, grabbing his pack as they stumbled away from their tiny campsite. Behind them, the raging blaze roared, moving faster up the valley than seemed possible. The early winter air was dry and leaves crackled beneath their feet as they ran. Despite the heavy rain from earlier, the underbrush was dead and dry enough to fuel the monstrous forest fire.

_Lightning_, Ryn realized as they both struggled to breathe through the ubiquitous smoke. Lightning had obviously struck a tree and started this inferno.

And she'd fallen asleep on watch, or else they would've known about it much sooner.

"Ryn!" Talos pointed up and to the right, toward the top of the steep rocky wall of the valley. She followed his finger, and saw, to her horror, that the flames were actually ahead of them up there.

"Faster," she panted, forcing her legs to _move_.

_Hurry hurry…_

Ash rained down around them, like a twisted version of snow, coating the ground, the skeletal trees, their hair and skin. Ryn coughed and stumbled, yelping when her streaming eyes didn't warn her of the root that caught her foot. She went down hard, screaming in agony when she heard her wrist snap under the combined forces of her weight and the inertia she'd gained from running.

Talos was at her side a moment later, his hands pulling her up while she struggled to see through a red haze of pain.

"Can't stop," he wheezed, looking behind them. She tried to get her feet under her; stumbled once, twice, before managing it and beginning to jog again. She winced as pain lanced up her leg with every step.

Wonderful, she'd twisted her ankle too.

But it wasn't broken, she could tell—the agony radiating from her fractured wrist was screaming so much louder than her distressed ankle. She gasped a sob, but picked up the pace when she felt a hot wind scorch the back of her neck. There was no way to heal herself while she was running, not when she was distracted by a broken wrist, wrenched ankle, and the paralyzing fear caused by running headlong from a forest fire.

So she clenched her teeth and vowed to keep up with her brother.

So intent on his back was she that she nearly missed it when they splashed through a river, half running, half swimming through the deepest parts. Talos waded out the other side and held his hand out to help her, which she took gladly. She stumbled to a halt beside him, pushing him to run again, but he caught her by the shoulder and turned her gently.

"Ryn, stop, it's all right, look."

She turned back to see that the fire had stopped spreading—at least in their direction—when it hit the little river; and it was drizzling again, the rain evaporating in little puffs of steam before it even hit the flames.

Blinking dizzily, Ryn tried to catch her breath. Talos was smiling a little.

"Come on, _namad_. Let's get you under some shelter and you can heal that wrist."

She nodded, following him blindly. He talked to her the whole way, making sure she didn't collapse where she was and just quit. After a moment or two, she registered hard stone beneath her feet and a lack of stinging cold rain on her neck. She looked up and around to see her brother gathering some loose wood from a corner and arranging it for a small fire.

Ryn turned in an uncertain circle before her knees folded beneath her and she sat right where she was, in the archway of a small cave. She was shivering from cold and shock, feeling like every nerve was frozen save the ones in her arm, which were as hot as the raging fire outside. Coughing, wincing at the sting in her lungs, she reached for her magic just as Talos struck a match.

"Dwarf-flesh!" a rough voice croaked from the darkness, and then shining eyes were reflected in the tiny flame her brother held. Greedy laughs followed the speaker's words.

Shining eyes, scarred, grey faces, and disgusting toothy grins.

* * *

Shadows chased one another, both in the quiet clearing, and inside Elof's head. He looked around, confused, trying to remember how he had reached this place. It was silent, and peaceful, and the moon shone high in the lightening sky—it was nearly dawn. Conifers surrounded him on the hill, and he could see the Misty Mountains directly to his left.

Which meant he'd been travelling north.

Last time he remembered anything, he had deliberately set his face south.

The young man shuddered, wondering how far he'd gone, how long he'd been unaware of his own actions, what he'd done…

His heart thumped. What _had _he done? He found himself checking his clothes, his skin, the dagger Ryn had given him all those months ago, for blood or any sort of sign that something bad had happened.

There was none.

Elof breathed a sigh of relief that was quickly eclipsed by worry again. This had been occurring more and more frequently in the days since he'd left Lorien on his own; these blank spaces in his head, hours on end when he was essentially blacked out, running on Valar-only-knew-what orders.

It was the enchantment, he could feel it getting stronger, driving him toward Fjallstadr, toward the Starstone.

Toward Ryn.

Shaking his head, Elof turned so the just-cresting golden sun was on his left, and began walking.

_South_.

* * *

Fíli, Son of Dis, King Under the Mountain, stood alone on the summit of Ravenhill. The early sun caught the gold in his hair, reflected it, lightened it, making him a bright figure on the otherwise drab autumn scene. He held his gauntleted arm up, calling a circling raven, who landed smoothly, cawing a greeting.

Fíli smiled. "Qir. Mahal's blessings on you, lad." The bird bowed, wings spread.

"Golden King. I carry a message from Silver Coat in Man Roost."

Ah, Trip had gotten his message to Bard, then, and sent a response. Excellent. "Very good," he replied. "What is it?"

"Man King says he is grateful for your offer to shelter his people. He will send many today."

Fíli's smile widened. "Thank you, Qir; good bird." The raven pecked gently at Fíli's sleeve, trilling affectionately. "There are some treats for you on the High Ledge, if you want." Qir let out an excited quork and spread his wings. Fíli tossed him gently into the air and turned to head back to the Mountain, squinting when he noticed two smallish figures headed his way.

Odd. No one, save Frâr, knew he was up here. It was an agreement they had come to—the King needed time alone, and they both agreed early morning was best so long as Fíli promised to remain in one of several approved locations, thought by his Guard to be more defensible, where he'd be—_allegedly_—less likely to be kidnapped or assassinated.

Fíli knew better than to argue.

He jogged down the rough stairs of Ravenhill—it was much cleaner than it had been when they arrived, but was not yet rebuilt entirely—speeding up a bit when he recognized Sêla's flaming hair on one of the figures running his way. A little closer and he could see Kíli's beardless face and dark hair.

_What is going on?_

He left the outpost through the stone door at the bottom of the hill, and by that time he was within earshot of his brother and—

That fiery head of hair, though. It was too curly to be Sêla. Her face came into focus, and Fíli's eyebrow shot up.

It was Anora. And she looked…terrified. Fíli flicked his gaze back to his brother, and noted with some trepidation that Kíli looked afraid too.

_Mahal, this cannot be good._

"FEE!" Kíli shouted as he drew near. "Fee, come quick!"

Oh, he knew that voice, that tone. He'd heard it too many times throughout the years. Fíli didn't hesitate, he lurched into a run toward his companions.

"Kíli?" he shouted. "What is it?"

His brother put on a burst of speed, though he still didn't outstrip the lass beside him, and they met in a panting group near the Hill.

"Fíli," Kíli panted, though he didn't get any further before Anora interrupted.

"Sêla is gone."

Fíli felt like he'd been physically struck. He blinked stupidly at his friend, rocking back on his heels, unable to summon a coherent thought. His mouth opened as if to ask a question, but no words came out.

_G-Gone? How—where—what?_

"Our father brought some sodding bastard from the Iron Hills to marry her off so I would have…_room_…to reel you in," Anora was tight-lipped, her face white with rage. "And the coward made off with her in the middle of the night."

Fíli was grateful then he hadn't eaten breakfast yet, else it would have ended up all over Anora's boots. He managed a strangled sound of distress, and Kíli stepped closer in case he fell.

"I'm almost certain he took her by force," Anora finished, green eyes sparking. "If not by physical force, then via threats or some such nonsense. She would never have gone with him willingly, not without saying goodbye first."

_Mahal_.

The lingering faint feeling in his head was quickly becoming overshadowed by a blooming, hot fury that curled in his chest. He looked to Kíli, saw the steel in his brother's eyes, the animosity that was now directed at a random stranger from the Iron Hills. He saw, too, complete trust and willing support, and he knew Kíli would do anything—_anything_—his brother needed him to do right now, likely with not a word of protest.

_Good_.

"Kíli, stay, supervise the settling of the Dale folk," he said, his voice surprising even him with its steadiness and barely-concealed temper. "I'm taking my Guard after her. Even if it happened last night, he's unlikely to have gotten far."

Kíli nodded, but Anora stood taller. "I will come, as well."

"No."

"Fíli, yes. Look, here!" she shoved a thick piece of parchment at his chest. Fíli looked down to see it was a formal acceptance of his offer of a position in the King's Guard. "I'm part of them now," she growled. "And even if I wasn't, this is my _sister_—"

"Anora, please," Fíli's voice was soft. Perhaps that, more than anything caught her attention, and she settled a bit. Fíli took her hand. "It is not your courage or ability that I doubt. There is _nothing_ about you that I do not believe capable of this mission. But there are orcs coming. An entire army—thousands upon thousands of them—and we don't know when they'll arrive. I cannot rob your father of both his daughters in one day. You must stay, this time."

"I will need your help," Kíli provided with a nod. "I cannot manage the arrival of hundreds of humans on my own."

Fíli blessed his brother for that last, knowing that Anora would need to be busy, to be helping, that shoving her in a corner 'for her own safety' was the fastest way to ensure she didn't stay put.

It was a habit he would need to see broken if she was to serve in his Guard, but one they needed to work with for now.

He watched her war with herself—and _Mahal_, could he appreciate it. If he was in her position, and it was Kíli who'd been kidnapped? The Valar themselves wouldn't be able to stop him racing after his brother. He prayed swiftly that she was less like him than they thought.

She was. Her eyes dropped and her shoulders sagged in defeat, but she nodded. Kíli breathed a slow sigh of relief, and Fíli drew her close and kissed her forehead. He could feel her vibrating with fear and tension in his arms.

"I will bring her back to you," he swore.

_Mahal, don't let me be made a liar._

* * *

Running, fighting, dodging, rolling, stumbling.

_More_ running.

Ryn felt ready to drop as the sun began to crest over the horizon, turning the sky a dull gray that seemed to match her mood. She was exhausted, in horrific pain—she hadn't yet had time to stop and heal herself—and by this point, Talos wasn't much better off. He had no broken bones, but he had been doing most of the fighting, her right arm entirely useless, for _hours_ now. He had saved her life countless times, kept her moving when the pain threatened to overtake her consciousness, even carried her when she tripped once more and did not immediately rise.

But even devoted little brothers had their limits. Eventually, his tiring muscles had betrayed him and earned him a rough knock on the head from an orc club. He'd been stumbling more since, vomited once and dry heaved several times, and he kept blinking to clear his vision. Ryn knew the signs.

Her brother had a brain injury.

That, more than anything, prompted her to halt when the sun finally rose and chased the little goblins back into their caves, leaning heavily on a tree and reaching for her magic. Talos was panting nearby, hands on his knees as he struggled to remain upright.

He wasn't the only one. Black spots kept dancing across Ryn's vision despite her blinking hard to disperse them. Her magic was slipping, every time she got a firm grasp on it, it bled through her fingers and dispersed.

"Come on," she croaked. She pressed her head and both hands to the tree trunk in frustration, her breathing slowing as she deliberately calmed and focused herself. Her right wrist throbbed, blue and swollen and painful, but she worked past it, accessing the energy of the tree…

A gasp of relief, and her wrist was back to normal.

"Oh, thank the Valar," she murmured, still exhausted, but not in as much pain. She stumbled over to her brother, who had given up on standing and now knelt, leaning heavily on a rock, eyes closed.

"Talos," she coaxed, framing his dirty face between her hands. "_Nadadith_, stay with me, come on." He half-mumbled something, barely conscious, and Ryn pulled from the small plants around them, infusing his body with healing energy. He gasped when it worked, his skin regaining its color and the nasty-looking bruise above his ear fading slowly. "Yes, that's better," Ryn murmured, stroking his damp hair.

Talos' eyes blinked open slowly as he breathed out a sigh. "Thank you," he whispered, pulling her close, much to the chagrin of her (and his) sundry other wounds. But she didn't stop him, just let herself rest for a moment, drawing energy from plants and small animals further away to slowly replenish what she and her brother needed. "Was almost sure I would lose you there," Talos' voice rumbled in his chest, against her ear, and she squeezed him tighter in response.

"Never," she replied, and hated herself for lying.

They sat like that for nearly half of one hour, the sun shining down and warming them and the earth around them, making Ryn drowsy with comfort. But she forced herself to pull away, to stand, feeling much better now than she had before. She held out a hand to Talos, and he took it, both siblings turning about to get their bearings.

Ryn gasped and grabbed his arm. Talos followed her gaze and stilled.

"Finally," he breathed.

For before them the valley opened, ancient stone towers and turrets gleaming in the morning sun. Decaying though they were, it was still obvious it had once been a beautiful place, the Main Gate framed by carven flowers and leaves, stone lions standing sentinel on the crumbling walls. Ryn's heart fluttered.

_Fjallstadr_.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

"The Vault is located in the catacombs beneath the library where you first met me," Ryn read aloud from Elof's letter as she and her brother stood under a once-majestic vaulted ceiling. Having not had time to study the room the first (and only) time he'd entered it months prior, Talos was staring openly at the hundreds of decaying wood shelves, once-elegant furnishings, and thousands of scrolls and tomes that hadn't yet turned to dust. His jaw was slack and his eyes wide, and Ryn wanted to smile.

Wanted to, but couldn't quite manage it. She was feeling a bit ill at this point, if she was honest.

"There's a door at the eastern corner of the library, near the Scholar's desk. It will be difficult to open, but you two together will manage just fine; proceed down the hallway and enter the last chamber on the left."

Talos looked back at her, a full smile on his face now. "Well then, let's go!"

He dashed off toward the eastern corner of the main wing, where Ryn could see the dilapidated remains of a massive oak desk. She followed at a more sedate pace, wanting both to find the Vault as quickly as possible, and to never find it at all. Every moment with her brother felt weighted, heavy with the implication that it was one of the last. She suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Talos, on the other hand, was in higher spirits than she'd seen him since they were in Erebor. Once Fárbjóðr had been…_taken care of_, her brother had been ecstatic at having found her—and the feeling had been entirely mutual. They'd spent nearly the entirety of the trip from Lorien to Erebor talking, yammering about old acquaintances in the Iron Hills, telling stories of their adventures and joys and pains. Ryn had been impressed, though unsurprised, at her brother's success in warrior training; while he had been unabashedly proud of the name she'd made for herself on the road.

The constant desire to spend time together hadn't diminished in Erebor either, though the ability to be together had been. She had duties to attend to and research to conduct, while he had quickly found his place in Erebor's army. Ryn had been overjoyed to see Talos fit in so easily—he had been one of the few that didn't treat Elof like a freak of nature, had hit it off instantly with Gimli, idolized Fíli, and after the requisite antagonism any brother displays toward his sister's Intended, even Kíli had charmed his way into Talos' good graces.

To the point that she almost wondered which of them wanted to see him healed more desperately.

She jumped as she was brought back to the present by a horrific crash. She sped around the nearest bookshelf to find her brother standing over the remains of the door, holding his axe and looking smug.

"Door's open," he quipped. She smacked him fondly on the back of the head as she passed, ducking into the tiny dark hallway beyond.

"You got a—" she started to ask, but turned just as her brother lit the torch he'd fashioned from a dry post and some bandages. He smiled at her and stepped in front, taking point without asking. Ryn suppressed the urge to trip him up for it, but decided it wasn't worth the trouble and followed.

The hallway was long indeed, and dark and musty and Ryn really didn't want to think about what exactly was living on the low ceiling or in the crevices between the stones under her feet. She shuddered as her leather boots crunched over what felt suspiciously like bones, drawing instinctively closer to Talos and the light. At the end of the passage, her brother turned and handed her the torch.

"Let's see how this one holds up," he grinned, stepping back to swing his axe.

Ryn held up a finger to stop him, reached past, and pointedly turned the old brass handle. It rotated with nary a protest and the door swung open on creaky hinges. She raised a single eyebrow, silently amused, and Talos huffed.

"More fun the other way," he muttered. "What's next?"

"Next we follow the dark spiral staircase down into the scary catacombs," she paraphrased. Talos gave her a truly offended look at the very idea of being _scared_ of going underground, and snatched the torch before striding forward. Ryn couldn't suppress a snort of amusement; she saw him grin before turning away.

Down they went, deep under the city, before the spiral staircase opened into a wide cavernous room. It was pitch dark; water dripped from somewhere nearby and the walls-what she could see of them-were lined with stone markers engraved with Orð runes and carven images. There were depictions of great battles, of robed Healers holding bright stones, bringing back the ill and infirm from the brink of death. Ryn smiled a little, running her fingers over one particular image of a man holding a sword and a blazing white stone.

"Who is it?" Talos asked from behind her.

"I don't know," she murmured. "But I like him."

"He reminds me of you," her brother remarked.

Ryn hummed an agreement and consulted Elof's letter again. "Says the Vault is located fifty paces from this spot. Elof told me this is the only crypt in here that depicts the Starstone and that I would know it when I saw it." She gestured to the white gem that symbolized the treasure they were looking for. "That's it."

Talos didn't question her, just turned away so the crypt was at his back and began counting paces. When he reached fifty, he turned on the spot, stomping a little to look for any seams or indications of different material than stone. Ryn smiled and walked right past him.

"You said….fifty paces?" he asked.

She nodded, going to her hands and knees about twenty paces further from him, searching the ground for the symbol Elof had described to her—a swirling rune similar to the one behind her ears. "Ancient Eiri were taller than dwarves," she explained. "Their paces would've been longer."

_There_, she realized as her fingers hit the grooves of the rune. _Carved into the floor, just as Elof said._

She brushed at it with her bare fingers, blowing the dust away, awed. Immediately, the rune began glowing a dim apple green and the stone beneath her fingers warmed. Ryn smiled.

"What's it doing?" Talos asked in a hushed whisper, going to his knees beside her. She looked up at him, unable to stop smiling.

"It somehow recognizes my heritage. Some spell in the stone. Elof said it would—it lit up whenever he or Fárbjóðr were around too."

Her brother grinned excitedly. "So open it!"

Instantly, her excitement dimmed. Trying not to let it show, she shook her head. "Not so fast. The ritual required takes a long time"—that, at least, was no lie—"and we should get some rest first. It's going to take a lot out of me to do this." That was true, too.

Talos tilted his head but didn't argue. "Well, can we at least rest in the library upstairs? This place is...dank."

Ryn forced another smile. "Of course. And you can use my bedroll, since I made you leave yours. I'll sleep under my cloak."

"You'll do no such thing."

"Will so."

"Will not, _you're _the one who needs to be well-rested."

They argued good-naturedly all the way back up the long staircase and into the library through the tiny hall. They kept arguing after picking a warm spot beneath one of the not-yet shattered windows where the sun shone in and heated the stone under their feet. They were still arguing when Talos found an old thick rug, dusty but still softer than marble, and dragged it over. Talos didn't let up until Ryn threatened to stuff him bodily into her bedroll and then sit on him until he fell asleep.

Then he just grinned and tackled her. The two rolled around, wrestling roughly, until the laid-out bedroll was completely torn apart and they were both flushed and breathless, laughing. Before Ryn could protest, both siblings were curled underneath the warm blanket, atop the thick pad and even thicker wool. Talos put his back to hers, his solid presence a comfort so poignant it brought tears to Ryn's eyes.

"G'night," he murmured. She didn't answer—she _couldn't_, certain her voice would give her away—but pressed against his back in a silent agreement.

His deep breathing less than ten minutes later told her he was asleep.

_Oh, nadadith._

Ryn waited ten more minutes, noting the position of the sun—it was nearly noon—before shifting gently, slowly, to reach her pack. She pulled out Elof's letter, worn by now, the parchment thinning along the folded edges, stained with dirt and now soot, and unfolded it.

It was foolish, she knew, but some wild, tiny part of her hoped it would be different when she read it this time.

_Dearest Ryn,_

_Please forgive me for what I am to do in only moments. I am not abandoning you, nor am I rejecting you or Talos; you both have given me what no one in the world—save my parents—have, and that is companionship. Love, without boundary or condition. You have been everything I lacked these past ten years, and for that I can never truly thank you properly._

_But I can save you, and that is why I must leave. It is too dangerous for me to be near either of you, my very existence is a blight upon your quest. Kíli is depending on you, Ryn, to see this through; and I'll not stand in your way, deliberately or no._

_You must open it alone, I am sorry. I had planned to do it myself, to keep this burden from your already-laden shoulders, but I cannot. It is too dangerous, as I said. But I will tell you how to open it, things I never told you before because I did not want you to know until it was too late to stop me. _

_The Vault requires a sacrifice to open; but not just any sacrifice—the exact wording in the legend is "The Sacrifice of That Which All Hold Dearest." Your life, Ryn, it requires you to give your life, willingly and of your own volition. If you think it a cruel price, as I once did, remember that the One who locked it away needed to be sure the next person who found it was pure of heart. And it worked—Fárbjóðr never could access the Stone, nor could he force me to do it, as doing so would negate the selflessness of the Sacrifice. I had intended to commit the Sacrifice myself, once we reached the Vault, but given the enchantment that doubtless lies upon me; I would not trust myself to be anywhere close to you or that Vault. For all I know, Melkor could raise me the moment it opens and take the Stone for himself, which you and I both know we cannot allow._

_And so you must do it. I realize this will require Talos to carry the stone back to Erebor alone, let Kíli handle it and hope it does its work without you—I have good evidence to suggest the Stone works somewhat in its own right, though the use of it by an Eiri makes the magic work faster and stronger. Nevertheless, it will probably save him still, with or without you._

_I love you, Ryn; you and Talos both. Please, please forgive me._

_Elof, Son of Steoric._

Ah, foolish hope! It read the same as it had the last thousand times she opened it, and the words were no less painful now than they had been at the first.

_The Sacrifice._ She must give her life to open the Vault, access the Stone.

She must die, so Kíli could live.

The way it gutted her was almost embarrassing. She'd never given much thought to her own life, figuring it was worth little enough. It had made her a good warrior, a risk-taker, quick and quiet and nigh unbeatable. But finding Kíli, Fíli, Bilbo, _Talos_...finding a home and a new purpose and a future...had forced her to re-evaluate her ideas, and she found herself mourning the idea of ending it all. Certainly, Kíli would live, Talos' world would continue, her friends would miss her but move on; so she couldn't even say it was for them that she grieved.

No, it was for her alone. For the loss of everything she loved, mere months after she'd found it.

But it was never a question, whether or not she would go through with it. She folded Elof's letter again, placing it beside Talos' head as she gently eased out from under the blanket beside him. The sun was shining brightly outside the thick window, and she took a fleeting moment to appreciate the warmth of it, to remember all the sunrises she and Kíli had shared, to get her last good look at the light before she descended into darkness for the final time.

Then she kissed her brother's cheek lightly, scrawled a quick note of her own and placed it atop Elof's, and left, snatching up the torch as she left the failing light of the library for the pitch black of the little hall.

* * *

Sêla huffed quietly as she sat, subconsciously assessing her situation. She was lying in a wagon of some sort, bouncing over a rough road, and the repeated impact to her sore head was what had roused her. The inside of the wagon was warm, which told her the sun had been up for several hours by now. She sat up slowly, remembering enough of what had happened to know she ought to avoid drawing attention to herself until she knew more—_what_, exactly, had Baren made her breathe anyway? It had been nasty and quick and smelled disgusting. Her nose wrinkled at the memory.

Rubbing her temples to ease away some of the ache, Sêla listened carefully. There were travelling sounds outside—pony harnesses jingling, the clatter of wheels over dirt and stones—but no one was talking, which she found slightly odd. Of course, she'd only ridden with caravans of honorable folk before, never in a pack of bandits—for that's all Baren and his crew were, at this point—trying to escape justice.

Perhaps silence was the normal order around here. She knew for certain it would be expected of her as Baren's wife, in the Iron Hills.

The thought spurred Sêla to action, despite the burrowing panic in her belly. She found she was unbound, free to move about, not even gagged; and she wondered if whatever she'd been given was expected to keep her unconscious all the way to their destination, or if Baren just counted on her having been raised a meek enough lass to not fight back when she did awake.

Sêla scowled. If _that's_ what he expected, the bastard was in for a rude awakening. Quiet she may have always been, respectful and studious and the complete opposite of her fiercely independent sister; but that did not mean she would stand for such treatment. She was the daughter of Tefur, a lass of Ered Luin—and now Erebor—and the beloved of the most powerful dwarf in all the Seven Kingdoms.

And she was more like her sister than they realized.

* * *

The King Under the Mountain was in a rare temper. His Rohirric short horse thundered along the road leading east from Erebor—normally a simple, safe, relatively short journey, but today one fraught with danger and fear. Today, there were enemies about, and his beloved had been kidnapped and was on this road at this very moment. The very idea made him snarl and nudge his mount a little faster.

Beside him, an older dwarf rode, hazel eyes dark with rage, long beard streaming in the wind with two braids behind. Tefur had refused to be left behind, much like Anora—except no lad in his right mind, King or not, would even try to keep a father from rescuing his stolen daughter. In taking Sela before the appointed time, Baren had broken faith with Tefur in a way that would trigger nothing less than a blood feud. And to be honest, Fíli _wanted_ him along; Anora hadn't known if Baren had any guards of his own along, or a posse perhaps, and the golden-haired king wanted to be ready for a fight, should the Iron Hills lad prove…._recalcitrant_. Fíli knew firsthand how well pride and stubbornness mixed when one was backed into a corner, and he did not want Sêla taken permanently because he was unprepared.

"Less than a mile!" Frâr hollered, pointing ahead, where the road descended into a low plain dotted with sparse trees. Fíli looked; a small caravan ahead, moving at a good clip—but not near fast enough to outrun even a hastily-assembled war party. He turned to Tefur, who had seen the group too, and was now looking at Fíli expectantly, and gave the merchant a single nod.

Tefur returned it, raised his axe, and leaned forward on his horse. The animal moved faster at his silent command, and Fíli turned his attention back to the road, his gaze fixed on the caravan. There were probably twenty of them, a meagre enough guard, and he guessed Sêla would likely have been stowed in the single canvas-covered wagon in the very heart of the group.

That was his target. Leave the honorless Baren to Tefur and Frâr—who would deal with the lad harshly enough, he knew, without killing him—but Fíli's own priority was the lass.

And as soon as he had her back, he was going to make things right with her father and beg—yes, _beg_, if necessary—for another chance. He would not lose her a second time.

* * *

Sêla peeked out between the flaps of canvas at the back of the wagon. There were two surly-looking, heavily-armed dwarves riding behind, but they did not see her, nor did they see what she saw about a mile back on the open road: a party of armored dwarves riding Rohirric short horses—stronger, fiercer, and faster than ponies, bred for fighting — headed straight for them.

Sêla grinned.

Should she await them, then? Stay out of the line of fire and wait to be rescued? Something in her dwarfy heart balked at that idea; and besides, Baren's folk would hear them coming, have time to prepare to meet them, if they were as silent as they currently were.

She'd just have to make some noise, then.

Gathering her concentration—and her courage—Sêla dashed out the back of the wagon, barreling straight into one of the ponies the rear guard was riding. The creature shied, whinnying in alarm, and Sêla shouted and waved her arms to spook it. The guard fought to control his mount while his companion growled a warning to the rest of the party.

Fiery red hair whirled as Sêla turned and dodged heavy hooves, making a break for the trees; knowing she'd never make it, but knowing, too, they'd not seriously hurt her, and the commotion would allow the party from Erebor to approach without getting anyone's attention.

"Hey!" She heard shouts from behind her, just as a pony caught up to either side of her. Sêla stopped short, bolting to her left as her pursuers shot past her. She saw Baren just to her rear, and turned, flashing him a rude gesture she would never normally use as she sprinted back toward the wagon.

As she expected, the chase lasted mere minutes before she was completely surrounded, her captors' ponies creating a tight circle around her and her so-called _Intended_ smirking from his saddle.

"I rather hoped you would try to escape," he taunted. "Thought it would add a bit of amusement to an otherwise _hopelessly_ boring ride. The insult was especially classic." He referred to her earlier gesture, and she knew, were she not about to be rescued, that she would have paid dearly for that once he had married her.

Instead, she resisted the urge to look behind him, where the War Party was near enough she could feel the vibrations of their hooves in the earth beneath her feet. She smiled and with a toss of her curls, rushed Baren's pony. He never saw such foolishness coming, and therefore, had no time to react before she ducked between his mount's hooves, praying she'd not get herself brained, and broke free of the circle, headed straight for—

_Papa! Fíli!_

Her heart soared at the sight of both of them, near enough now for her to recognize, and her feet practically flew. Baren shouted behind her, pulling his horse around and giving chase. Someone shouted in alarm at the sight of the Erebor dwarves, and having pointed both parties at each other, Sêla darted to the right to get out of the way.

But, as she'd intended, Baren's folk were prepared to deal with a barefoot lass trying to make an escape; not a group of angry dwarf warriors in full mail and armed to the teeth.

Fíli didn't even bother fighting, though Sêla's father roared as he raised his axe against the first guard she'd spooked several minutes before. The lad barely had time to raise his shield before her father—and his short horse—were upon him. That was all Sêla had time to see before Fíli was close, shouting her name, his face a mask of terror. He held out his hand to pull her up behind him, and Sêla reached for him desperately—

She yelped as a strong hand came down upon her back, lifting her bodily off the ground by her nightdress (and some of her hair), and she was yanked roughly into another saddle, lying across it on her belly. The move knocked the air from her lungs and her stomach turned in protest.

Baren.

_Ugh._

Sêla tried to slide off the horse, but Baren laid a heavy arm across her back, digging his elbow into her spine and curling a handful of her hair in his hands, yanking it tight so it was impossible to move. She shouted in frustrated rage, and he snickered, turning his pony to face the rest of Fili's group, who had easily dominated Baren's few guards.

"Halt!" he shouted. "Or she dies."

Sêla growled, and he pressed his sharp elbow harder into her back, rubbing it back and forth over the bones of her spine. The movement turned her growl into a yelp of pain, but loosened his grip on her hair just enough she could turn her head. Fíli and her father stood together, several paces away, both bristling visibly.

"Baren, Son of Baren," Fíli said, the fury in his voice barely checked. "You have taken one of our citizens against her will. I demand you return to Erebor to be brought to justice."

"She is mine!" Baren roared. "I have a _contract_!"

"A contract," Tefur cut in, "to marry and care for her with my formal blessing. You skipped out on that blessing, lad." Tefur glared and lowered his voice. "That makes you nothing more than a bandit who kidnapped my daughter." He growled and stepped forward, and Sêla took her chance while Baren was distracted by her father.

She wrenched herself around, Baren's heavy arm sliding off her back—it _hurt_, but it was better than being held hostage—and drove her own elbow into his belly. His leather armor protected him somewhat, but the impact still loosened his fingers and pushed him back enough for her to slide off his horse and land shakily in the dirt. Her father started toward her, but Fíli's eyes were on Baren, who roared his rage.

"Sêla!" was all Fíli had time to shout, and she turned and ducked in response, but not fast enough to prevent the dwarf lord's metal gauntlet from striking her temple.

And everything went black for the second time that day.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

"Sêla!" Fíli shouted, Baren's upraised arm telegraphing his intended move as if he'd shouted it aloud. Her blue eyes met his, then she turned and ducked at the same time he spurred his horse forward. He saw Baren's fist meet her face, and saw red. Vaguely, he heard Tefur's roar beside him, and knew the lad had made his last mistake—such violence against a lass was far past cause for a blood feud. Tefur would exact justice as he saw fit; and Fíli would not stop him, it was his right.

So he pulled up his mount directly in front of Sêla's prone form and slid off the saddle, going to his knees beside her in an instant. He noticed with some pride that four of his Guard were backing up Tefur while the rest ringed him and the red-haired lass in his arms. Satisfied things were under control, he turned his full attention to Sêla.

"Lass," he whispered, running calloused fingers over her bruised temple. "_Mahal_, I'm sorry, Sêla…wake up, _azinlaz_, _please_…"

"My Lord," a soft voice called from his right. He looked up to see Bóna, one of his younger Guards, kneeling beside him. He remembered suddenly that she was one of the few dwarves who had studied more than one apprenticeship as a lass—in her case, swordsmanship and healing. "May I help?"

He nodded, making to move aside, but she caught his arm. "No, Fíli, don't move. If he damaged her neck, we mustn't jostle her. I can do what I must with you there." He nodded, appreciating the sudden rank switch—when it came to healing, he knew very little aside from basic care, and he couldn't deny he felt much less terrified when Bóna was so obviously in charge.

The dark-haired lass probed gently at the back of Sêla's neck, feeling for anything unnatural, then moved her hands to the area around the blooming bruise, feeling gently. Sêla moaned, shifting a little, and Bóna smiled. Fíli's jaw clenched.

"She responds to pain," the healer lass said. "It is a good sign."

Fíli looked up again when he heard Tefur shove his way through the surrounding guards. "That's my daughter, lads, let me in!" Blood-spattered, the dwarf merchant broke through the wall of warriors and stood at his daughter's feet, his face paling.

"Is she—?"

"She is alive," Fíli answered quietly.

"Better than that," Bóna piped up, confident. "Her spine is intact, and I can't feel any evidence of damage to her skull. Just a good knock is all he gave her." She dug a small pouch from her belt, from which she extracted a small glass vial that she uncorked, with what looked like a tightly-wound dark leaf inside. She dropped it into her palm, announcing, "Cover your noses, you lot, this will be strong enough to wake the dead." Holding the pod beneath Sêla's nose, she broke it with a small _snap_.

Fíli, still afraid to move his hands despite Bóna's assurances there was no damage to Sêla's spine, caught the full force of the skunk pod's stench. He nearly gagged—it smelled fiercely of rotting meat—but forgot all about it when Sêla gasped, her features twisted, and her eyes popped open as she jerked away from the smell.

"Ah, there you are, lass," Bóna grinned as she popped the crushed pod back into the glass vial and sealed it tightly. Everyone breathed a little easier.

"_Mahal_," Sêla groaned. "What in the name of all that's sacred was _that_?"

"Sêla!" Tefur cried, reaching for her. She smiled, and Fíli moved aside, not about to get between the merchant and his daughter. Sitting up slowly, she let her father fold her tightly against his chest for a moment, murmuring something to him the King couldn't hear. Tefur chuckled despite the tears staining his dirty cheeks, and nodded.

"Of course, lassie," he whispered.

Fíli stood, silently shooing his Guard to give the two a moment. He clasped Bóna's hand firmly, and she bowed her head, acknowledging the exchange of rank and he took charge of the situation again.

"Thank you," he murmured sincerely.

"It's why I'm here," she smiled. Fíli nodded and turned to Frâr, who hadn't left his side the entire time. "What of Baren's posse?"

Hazel eyes flashed. "Most fled. One surrendered."

Fíli nodded. "Bring him back to the Mountain for justice. And Baren?"

Frâr shook his head once, and Fíli understood the situation as it was.

_So be it._

"Mount up!" he called, and the Guard complied immediately. Fíli turned to see Tefur and Sêla approach him, the father's arm tight around her shoulder. Her smile was relieved and grateful.

"Thank you for coming for me," she said softly. Fíli was pleased she didn't draw away from him by using his title or bowing or any such nonsense. He wanted desperately to pull her into his arms and never let go, but he wasn't sure if that would undo any goodwill Tefur now felt toward him; so he simply held her eyes.

"I will _always_ come for you," he murmured, trying to communicate in few words and a look, his absolute terror and crushing relief. Sêla's smile turned brilliant, and she reached for him, stepping away from her father. To Fíli's surprise, Tefur let her come to him; she wrapped trembling arms around his ribs and rested her head against his mail-clad chest.

His breath caught, and he gave into the urge to hold her tight, nuzzling her curls briefly. She took a few shaky breaths before whispering, "Can I ride back with you?"

Fíli ducked his head to speak into her ear. "Will your father allow it?"

She nodded, and he couldn't help the way his heart stuttered in his chest. It was no small thing for any father to approve of such an arrangement—apparently Tefur intended to give him a chance with Sêla.

A chance he was determined not to spurn.

Before he could answer, a shout of alarm from one of his Guard drew his attention.

"My King! Runners approach!"

* * *

The sun was nearing the horizon when Elof became aware of himself again, wincing as he looked about.

_Valar_.

He was at the Main Gate of the ancient city of Fjallstadr. This spot, in fact, was the very same at which he had stood as a boy, newly kidnapped and still full of fight and ferocity, when he first saw the ruins. He'd had no idea then he would spend the rest of his childhood there.

"No," he whispered to himself. He couldn't be here! This was all wrong, he'd done everything he knew to keep himself from this place, to keep himself far from Ryn and Talos—were they here already? Shaking his head, Elof decided it didn't matter; he needed to get away. _Now_. He turned to go, and growled when he realized:

He _couldn't_. He couldn't turn, no matter how hard he tried. His feet weren't moving forward, but neither would they move in the opposite direction.

He was unable to leave the path.

A nasty snicker sounded from somewhere nearby, and Elof whipped his head around—thank the Valar he could at least do that much—and his eyes widened in alarm.

There were four ugly goblins—the small mountain breed that favored the Misty Mountains—staring hard at him from beneath the shade of a small alcove in the wall. They hated the sun, he knew, so he wondered what could have possibly driven them here in the late afternoon, under a cloudless sky.

"Go away!" he cried, certain it would accomplish nothing, but unwilling to go quietly. The biggest one smiled, showing rotted sharp teeth, and Elof suppressed a shudder. He clenched his fists and settled himself into the defensive stance Ryn had taught him; able to move his feet, clearly, just not in the direction he wanted to go.

Fine. He'd make do.

A smaller orc chittered and bared its teeth at him, making to attack with a metal shiv, but the biggest one threw out an arm and blocked its approach.

"No," it snarled, voice rough and scratchy. "This one's marked by the Master. We're not to interfere."

Elof felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs. _Marked by the Master._ He had heard that referenced before, when he'd been researching the ancient Eiri scrolls in the Library. There had been a record in there of an elf lass who'd been _marked by the Master_. The ailment had been invisible to all but the darkest of creatures, and had stumped every Healer she saw, even elven masters. She had left her home in Rivendell, bound for Fjallstadr, in the hopes the _Umräd_ could help her—Elof knew now it very likely could have.

But she never made it past the Gladden.

He shuddered. Why was he _Marked_? And if he was, how come the ones before him didn't just kill him on sight? Was there some sort of communication among the ranks of evil that he wasn't to be touched?

The pieces fell into place in an instant, and Elof wanted to die right then.

The blackouts, the inability to go anywhere but Fjallstadr, the horrible visions, the fact orcs were warned not to interfere with him….it all made sense.

His job _was_ to kill her.

_Ryn!_

The realization seemed to flip a switch in his head—the harder he fought to back up, to get out of the city, the crueler the impulse to take a step forward. Resisting made his head ache, sent his nerves prickling under his skin.

He didn't care. He fought fiercely, angrily, like he'd not fought since he was a youngling trying to escape a mad sorcerer.

_You can't do this!_ He screamed inside his own head_. I won't do it! I __**won't**__! I…refuse…_

Two more steps forward.

_**No!**_

* * *

Sêla stood nervously outside Fíli's receiving chambers. The area was bustling with advisors, council members, Guards, and several high-ranking military officials; it made her wonder if there was possibly a worse time for all this.

But she didn't want this battle to begin—for the 'runners' that had reached them earlier that day had indeed been two elves who reported that the orcs were not far behind them, ready to lay siege to Erebor—without having this settled between them.

She wasn't the only one; her Father and Mother were both with her, as well as Anora. The family conversation that had been held in the main room of their chambers the moment they arrived home had been the most open and intense one she'd ever recalled.

"_Sêla, you want to marry Fíli?" Father asked. She had nodded, never dropping her eyes as she normally would have. She was too certain of this, too desperate for him to understand it._

"_And Anora, you truly wish to spend your life fighting for and beside the King Under the Mountain? You understand the burden you place upon yourself with this commitment?"_

_Beside her, Anora had stood—not in protest, as before, but in respect and certainty. "Yes, Papa. I do, and I understand the implications of it." Softening a little, she smiled at both their parents. "I am good at it, and it is where my heart is."_

_Tefur had looked at Poli then, who'd given him a slight shrug as if to say, _I told you, lad._ Their father had taken a deep breath._

"_Very well," he'd said. "If it is what you both truly want, I shall not stand in your way." His expression turned sad. "But I wish you'd told me sooner. How was I to know if you did not tell me?"_

_Both girls had sat, stunned. Sêla had blinked furiously, tears threatening to make an appearance._

"_But…Papa…" Anora had finally stuttered. "We did not know you cared to hear. We thought…you had a plan, and nothing other than that plan would…satisfy you!"_

"_Not care?" it was Papa's turn to stand, heartbreak clear on his lined face. "How could I not care? You are my daughters, the lasses I love more than any—save you, dearest," he directed to their mother, who smiled. "Your happiness and safety is the most paramount consideration in my life. How could you think I did not care what you wanted, what would make you happy?"_

_Sêla had shifted under the weight of her father's grief, wondering how she could have thought he did not give a thought to her own joy. "You were always so…domineering…in your plans, Papa," she said softly, looking up at him. "How were we to know you wanted to hear what we had to say? You never asked."_

_There was no reproach in her tone, but Tefur's face fell further, and a tiny glance at Ma told the girls this was a discussion they had had in the past._

"_Your Father only meant the best for you," this time, Poli spoke, seeming to take pity on your husband. "He raised you the way he was raised, could not see how your own background and the culture in which you grew up made it appear as though he meant only to enforce his own law." Sêla nearly came out of her seat at the pain on her father's face, but Mother was not finished. "And you lasses did not help the situation, with your sneaking about and refusal to communicate—with either of us." Her gaze was stern. "Even I had no idea what you both wanted, and I have watched you more closely than he has been able to."_

_It hit the younger hard then—this entire situation had been one giant comedy of errors, a lack of communication that had begun when they were but children. She and Anora had been so, so wrong about their parents; and their parents had been so, so wrong about them. Taking Anora's hand, she had stood then, holding both her parents' gazes._

"_Then we are sorry," she spoke for both of them, certain Anora was as shocked and horrified as she. "We are _sorry_."_

"_As am I," Father had choked, folding his little family in his arms. "I apologize, to all of you, for my part in this."_

Sêla grinned at the memory. Weeping and hugging had ensued, and a transparency she'd never seen from her family.

After they had managed to compose themselves, Father had insisted they go see Fíli right away to get this all sorted before the orcs arrived and made their lives even more difficult.

So now they stood, awaiting entry, and Sêla couldn't help but smile in spite of the situation.

After several minutes of waiting, a guard—Frâr, Sêla remembered his name was—appeared with a nod. "He will see you now," he beckoned them inside.

Sêla went first, Anora at her side, their parents behind. Fíli stood at a large desk, conferring with old Balin over a map of the city, but looked up as soon as they entered. He smiled at her, a little nervous, she thought, and definitely uncertain. Balin nudged him forward discreetly, and he came closer before bowing from the waist. Lady Dis stood nearby, talking in a low voice to Kíli, who seemed highly amused by his brother's discomfort.

"Good evening, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Fíli asked, nodding to each of them in turn.

Father stepped forward, taking a chance and placing a heavy hand on Fíli's shoulder. The lad looked up, a bit shocked, and Sêla wanted to laugh.

"I am here to make an apology and, hopefully, an agreement with you, lad," he said warmly. Fíli's eyes widened, but he nodded.

"Master Tefur," he said in a rush. "I am sorry for deceiving you, it was not my intention to treat you with any dishonor—"

Sêla's father forestalled him with a raised hand. "My daughter has told me. We have determined that the entire last few months' mess has been as much my fault as hers, and even less so yours."

But Fíli shook his head. "I had a responsibility, to communicate with you, and I did not fill it. Please accept my apology, Master Tefur, please."

"All right, all right," Tefur laughed. "It is accepted and all is forgiven. May we move forward?"

Fíli nodded. "Sir, I would very much like to court your daughter."

"I see absolutely no reason why you should not."

Sêla's heart soared. Fíli's eyes met hers, and she thought for a moment he would disregard everyone's presence and kiss her right there. With great effort, he looked back to her father.

"Thank you."

"The agreement Sêla and I have decided to present to you is this," Tefur unrolled a short parchment. The document wasn't over-large, Sêla had insisted it be simple as possible, and Tefur had agreed. "You will agree to a one-year courtship, of which the last two months will be counted; during which time both you and Sêla will be evaluated for compatibility with one another. She must be able to fulfil the duties of a queen, and you must be able to fulfil the duties of a husband, in addition to what you each have already spent your lives training for. If, after six months, the parties of Tefur and Poli—representing Sêla—and Lady Dis—representing Fíli—shall agree that the match is beneficial to all, you will be permitted to marry, should _both_ of you so desire at that time."

Fíli looked at his mother, who smiled and nodded, and signed the document without hesitation. Tefur clapped him on the shoulder. "I am sorry this is not how this all began; but I am glad we can move forward now as though there was no strife between us."

"Thank you, sir," Fíli laughed shakily, then let go of Tefur's hand and moved to Sêla in two steps. She welcomed him with open arms, uncaring of those watching when he kissed her hard, the fear and joy of the last day hitting her all in a rush. Time slowed as she kissed him back, giving and receiving comfort in equal measure.

When he did finally pull back, it was only far enough to press their foreheads together in an embrace. He laughed a little and murmured so only she could hear:

"Looks like we finally stumbled our way onto the right path, eh?"

Sêla laughed aloud and kissed him again.

* * *

Sunset found the Lonely Mountain ready for war. The entirety of the City of Dale had been emptied into Erebor, save the men who wished to fight. They stationed themselves not in the city—where the much-larger numbers of evil could easily cut them off from reinforcements and crush them—but in the woods and hills to the west. With them, nearly all of the hired mercenaries Fíli had been able to gather, rogue archers and axemasters and swordsmen, with no loyalties to speak of, save that which had been bought by Erebor's vast treasuries. Bard had worried briefly about the honor of such folk, but they were every one approved by Lady Deorynn; and her, he trusted.

The Rangers stood with Erebor's archers in the various balconies and parapets on the Great Wall, facing the oncoming armies of Melkor, the light of whose torches and the stomp of whose feet could already be heard as they drew closer to the Mountain. Grim-faced, determined, pale with trepidation but refusing to stand aside, Kíli led the archers as their Prince. The people of Erebor saw.

In the War Room, Fíli watched the approaching horde with steel in his eyes. In his right hand he held the Staff, end planted in the mithril knob sung into the floor, blue gem glowing brilliantly and reflecting the azure of his eyes. Under their feet the Mountain readied itself, shoring up stone to withstand battering rams, experimental rumbles shuddering through the plains south of the Mountain; weak spots in the ground, the dirt among the Mountain's roots. Beside Fíli stood Frâr to the left, Anora to the right, newly appointed into the King's Guard. Balin waited near the door, ready to assist the King with the use of the mithril room—and ready to fight, when the time came.

Sêla and Poli sat in the Healing Wards, wrapping bandages and waiting to assist however they could. The mother and her daughter shared a look, equal parts fierce pride and impotent terror.

Tefur took his place among the axemasters, spinning his blades experimentally, letting his fingers remember the strength he'd once had. Looking back, he saw the old wizard standing near the back of the army that waited just inside the Main Gate. Gandalf watched the preparations with a critical eye. He knew they had done all they could—everything rested on the strength of Kíli to fight Melkor's influence until Ryn could return. His eye found the lad, high on a balcony, checking on the state of his men as they waited. Briefly, his vision shone, a silver light in the boy's spirit that sent the wizard back a step, awed.

Putting all the pieces together, he gasped.

"_At last."_

Far to the south and west, a dwarf lad slept, snoring softly, unaware of the orcs which crept quietly through the Library with the deepening night. Elof fought the entire way as his feet led him down to the Vault.

And Ryn knelt before the Eiri Rune, reciting quiet ancient words and weeping openly as she took her dagger in her hands.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone!** So the stage is officially set; the endgame has begun. **WHAT WILL HAPPEN OMG?! **Anyone got any theories? I'd love to hear them! All I can promise you is that it is going to be a wild ride—so buckle up and keep your hands and arms inside the car until we've come to a complete stop.

Thanks, as always, to all of you who read and review—special _welcome back!_ to **Violet Brock** (glad real life finally chilled out enough to let you catch up, dear, I've missed your opinions!) and **drwatsonn** (always, always a pleasure to hear from you, so glad you're back!). Shout out, as well, to **summerald** for her badass beta skills and for being such a rockin' friend! Check out her stories, if you haven't already!

Lastly, don't forget that Summer and I have published an AU based on the BOFA film, called _Wayfarers_! You can find it under the joint profile **Summerandblue**. Love to see you over there!

Cheers, all!


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Hello everyone! My trip to Atlanta last week was extremely productive, though the results were rather unexpected. Regardless, I was gone and now I'm back! In penance for the wait, I've come bearing a new chapter-and another one is over 60% written already, so should be out tomorrow, or even later today if I'm exceedingly good. Thank you all so much for the reviews and PM's asking about the story; I'm sorry to have left you hanging, but there was just no way I could focus on this last week.

Special thanks, as always, to **summerald** for her help-and for Dad, who is actually just as interested in the ending as y'all are, shockingly, and not afraid to nudge me about new chapters. Every. Day. :)

Without further ado, here's the last of the background flashbacks. Enjoy!

* * *

_Year 3441, The Second Age_

"Runa!" the young warrior screamed his friend's name as the massive orcish sword sank deeply into her chest. Time seemed to slow; she looked not at her attacker, but at him, her eyes wide with fear and heartbreak.

_Asger_, she cried his name silently, just as his goose-fletched arrow met the skull of the one who had wounded her. She fell before he could reach her, and Asger slid to his knees in the muck beside the Seer he'd despised such a short time ago. Her eyes were rolling in her head as she fought to stay conscious, and he gathered her close, fumbling for the Stone in the pouch around his waist.

"Hold on, Runa, I'll heal you, just hold on for a moment…don't you die on me now, we have work to do…"

Softly, she patted his arm, and though he could barely feel it through his armor, it broke his heart. "Always so pushy," she gasped, and he managed a weak chuckle, kissing her forehead.

"Stay still," he ordered when she gripped his arm and pulled, as though she did not want him to reach the stone that could save her life. But Runa shook her head.

"No, Asger, don't."

He felt like time had stopped. He batted her hands away gently, but she took his jaw in her fingers and forced him to look at her.

"_Don't_."

"Why?" he asked desperately. He knew why. There was only one explanation. She had Seen this, knew what would happen, how it would happen, why it would happen.

And every fiber of his being _screamed_ in protest.

"Not enough time," she gasped, life draining from her quickly now. "Do not waste time mourning until you are safe, and Asger?" She kissed his lips softly. "_Live_, my sweet."

Tears were on his face and the warrior could not find it in him to care. "Tell me," he choked. "Tell me this was the only way?"

She brushed his wet cheeks with her dirty fingers.

"It was the best way."

* * *

_Year 32, The Third Age_

Looking back, Asger understood things he had not before. Much had changed since the hard-won victory over Sauron on _The Day._

_The Day_ was how he remembered the Last Battle of the Second Age, when he thought of it—which happened on a more regular basis than he preferred. He had lost everything then; his home had been destroyed, far from the site of the Battle, and in it, his mother and tiny sister killed. Fjallstadr had been ransacked and there had been precious little left of his family's heirlooms or belongings when he returned weeks later to gather what could be salvaged. Like most males of the Vorðr Clan, Asger and his father, grandfather, and brothers had been fighting and healing on the side of the Alliance, against Sauron and his forces. They had been killed, ambushed by Gundabad orcs, like all the Healers had been, like _he_ had been…

He understood now that Runa's actions had distracted the massive orc targeting him long enough for him to kill it—and her refusal to let him heal her had prevented any other Gundabad orcs from realizing who he was. He knew it had been her gift of Sight that had enabled her to choose the best course of action, but sometimes he wondered if she had put his life ahead of their mission.

As Healer and Seer, the very first of a promised pair of Heroes granted by the Valar once in an age, they should have been a match for Sauron himself, or so his grandfather had always said during their training. Estë had appeared to Brandt once more in the years since, when Asger was a young boy, and told him that this grandson would be one half of the Valar-appointed team with the ability to withstand the Darkness that was spreading quickly over Arda in those days.

And so his training had begun in earnest, as had the search for the promised Seer.

Mere weeks before _The Day,_ she had wandered into his life unexpectedly; a cheeky cooking girl hired to work in his family's home after the death of her father. Asger's grandfather had taken only hours to see her for what she was—the bearer of Irmo's gift of Sight—and throw her into training with him.

But the two had despised one another from the start, Asger grinned to remember. She'd thought him an arrogant spoiled brat and he'd thought her brazen and annoying. Brandt had been unrelenting in their training, however, and eventually the two had formed a tentative alliance—if for no other reason than to survive his grandfather's teaching methods.

Dislike had turned to tolerance, which had turned to acceptance, then affection. By the time they reached _Barad-dûr_, they had managed to admit there was more between them than a friendship.

Of course, there had been no time for such things on the eve of battle, and they had promised to discuss it after.

But there hadn't been an after.

Asger coughed on the emotion, still so wrenching after thirty years, and wrapped the _Umräd_ in a small cloth. Placing it gently inside the tiny chamber he had built in the floor of the catacombs, the last of the Vorðr Clan shut the steel trapdoor and began to chant in Ancient Orð, sealing it to respond only to one of Eiri descent.

With the demise of Fjallstadr and the vast majority of the Eiri race on _The Day_, Asger had begun to think toward the preservation of the Stones. He'd travelled Arda to find those left of his people — there were a few in hiding, many settled in amongst Men, Dwarves, and Elves they still worked to heal. Two of the Stones had been lost, but the others he hid in the deep places of Middle Earth, laying upon them powerful enchantments with the help of the most ancient High Elves. Random places he chose for the Seven, hoping to avoid any sort of pattern or logic.

But the _Umräd_, he had always known, he would seal in the ruins of Fjallstadr. It required extra protection—a location so steeped in Eiri Healing magic it would be difficult for evil to preside there. And he would invoke the blessing of Estë on its hiding place, dark spells keeping anyone of malicious intent away from the greatest of the Healing Stones.

"My Lady Estë," he prayed quietly as the rune in the floor glowed brightly. "Come and place upon this sealed Vault your own protection and power, that the Chiefest of the Gifts you bestowed upon us lay protected until the Remaking of the World…"

There was a clap of thunder, a shaking of the earth, and the rune flashed bright green then went dark, barely visible in the stonework of the ancient floor. Asger sat, dust settling, eyes adjusting to the now-darkness, and felt in his heart that his Quest was complete.

The legends say he never did leave that spot.

* * *

_Year 1003, The Third Age_

"Where is Olórin?" the King of the Valar's voice boomed out over all of Valinor. In the Gardens of Irmo, a young Maia sighed, shaking his dark head but answering Manwë's call. With but a thought, he was standing before the Council of the Valar, facing the Highest of them. He bowed low in respect.

"I am here, my Lord."

Manwë regarded him solemnly. "Olórin, you were summoned to this Council today. Why did you not appear?"

"With all respect, my Lord," Olórin answered. "I do not wish to join those who journey to Arda. I lack the fortitude and strength to resist Sauron himself; is it not better for me to remain here, where I cannot be twisted into a servant of Evil?" The Maia prayed silently that his King would listen—he knew his own strength, his own ability, his own personality and character; he strongly suspected he would do more harm than good in Arda, and hoped they would not send him there to find out.

"Nay," Manwë boomed, and Olórin's heart thumped painfully in his chest. "To fear Sauron is wise. Would that others had your humility, Olórin, for it will aid you in resisting the Dark One. You will go."

Olórin bowed, shoving down the sick feeling in his stomach. If the Valar wished him to go to Arda, then to Arda he would go, and do his best to always live up to their expectations.

He hoped, for the sake of the souls there, that he was as reliable as the Great Ones believed him to be.

"Olórin," the Lady Estë took his arm as he prepared to leave a few hours later. Irmo entered his chamber behind her, and the Maia smiled and bowed deeply to those he had come to respect and love during his time here.

"My Lord, my Lady, what may I do for you?"

"You remember the Healing Stones?" Estë asked without preamble, and Olórin nodded. How could he forget? The tragedy surrounding the Last Battle of the Second Age had been immense, and the eradication of Estë's people had grieved the Vala deeply.

"Yes, my Lady, of course."

"The Seer and the Healer," Irmo continued for his wife, who looked stricken. "What happened with Asger and Runa must not occur again. When next the Prophecy is fulfilled, Olórin, you must find and protect the Children who bear our gifts. They must be given the chance to work, to survive."

Gravely, Olórin nodded. "I understand. I will bear that promise with honor."

Estë smiled, but Irmo raised a brow. "See that you do."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

As it turned out, sacrificing one's self for the sake of another was much more easily done when _you_ were not the one holding the knife.

Ryn had been kneeling on the dusty catacomb floor for nearly half an hour, trying to work up the courage to move the dagger the last few inches to end her life and save Kíli's. She remembered a time when the idea of inflicting her own death hadn't seemed so bad—when she'd first run away from home as a mere dwarfling. Things had been very bad in those days: dwarves hated her, Men were dangerous, bandits even more so, she'd had no money, no work, no skills. She'd been alone and scared and hurting.

Hard days, indeed.

But now? She wasn't ready to leave everything behind, and she had _so much_ to live for.

_And_, she sighed, _so much to die for_. It was Kíli's life or her own; and though she knew he'd hate her for it, she was certain of her decision. Clenching her teeth, Ryn tightened her grip on the dagger's hilt, winged a quick prayer for forgiveness, and—

She yelped in shock as something tackled her from behind, snatching her dagger from limp fingers as they went down. A heavy weight landed on top of her with a shout, and without thinking, Ryn bucked it off, grasping for her second dagger desperately. She stumbled to her feet and turned to the thing that had attacked her.

It was a Man, she recognized with a gasp. A Man with a shock of black unruly hair and blue eyes…

She tried to say his name, but her throat had closed up. "Ryn," he said, low and fast. "You have to run."

She shook her head in surprise. _Run_?

"N-no. Elof, _no_."

The lad lurched forward, swinging the dagger at her, but the move was unbalanced and weak. She sidestepped him easily, trying to catch his arm and prevent him falling. The moment she touched him, he yanked away as if burned.

"Run!" he shouted. "The enchantment; it wants me to kill you, I can't hold it back forever...but Ryn, you're a better woodsman than I. Just run, _please!"_

She took a step back, understanding why his movements were so choppy, so uncoordinated. He was fighting his instinct to kill, trying to save her life.

Ryn was flattered, but she couldn't let him. "No," she said again. "I have to open the Vault. I have to do it _now_, Kíli can't wait much longer. And neither can you. I can _help_ you—"

Elof stumbled toward her again, the dagger raised in a classic stabbing position. She ducked out from under him, giving him a little shove as he passed her so he fell to his knees. She stepped up behind him, intending to knock him unconscious until this was all over—surely that would keep him off her long enough to open the Vault. Then she could use the _Umräd_ to heal him of the sorcerers'—_or whoevers'_—influence. But when she raised her dagger to strike his head with the pommel, he turned, lightning fast, and swiped at her exposed torso.

Ryn fell back, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade.

_Mahal!_

"Then kill me!" Elof shouted. "Do it now, Ryn, you must!" Then he charged her.

Ryn knew he was right; this spell was steadily making him better than he physically was at fighting, somehow giving him abilities he did not have. She engaged him, calling on every bit of her own skill to keep her own skin intact while she looked for an opening in his guard…

_There_.

Ryn shoved aside the hand that bore the dagger, ducking up under Elof's other hand, curled into a fist, and thrust her dagger against his throat, fully intending to slice it.

She paused when her eyes found his. He looked terrified, hurt, grieved.

Destroyed.

_Mahal, I can't._

"Elof, I—" she muttered weakly. She saw the battle in his gaze, saw his mind settle, heard the ancient spell she had recited not so many minutes ago leave his lips in a rush.

_What?_

"I can," he whispered, then she heard the telltale sound of knife meeting flesh, and his face contorted into an expression of sheer agony.

_NO._

"What? No, Elof, no!" Ryn looked down, already knowing what she would find; her stolen dagger buried hilt-deep in his gut, his fingers shaking as he let it go. Elof fell to his knees, and Ryn yanked the dagger out, holding a palm over his heavily bleeding stomach, reaching for her magic. But he snatched her wrist with surprising strength.

"Don't," he gasped. "Don't you _dare_. This was always...how it would...end…"

"NO!" she screamed. "I wouldn't have let you, no Elof, you can't...please no…." Now she was babbling, crying, begging him to let her heal him.

But Elof just traced his bloody fingers over her jaw, gripping the nape of her neck and pulling her into an embrace that was all dwarf.

"Save him," Elof whispered with his last breath, and Ryn felt the air leave her lungs in a rush as his hand fell limply to his side.

_It's not possible. This cannot be happening. Not here, not now. No._

* * *

Kíli leaned against a nearby wall as grief assaulted him, a devastating wave of despair that was only amplified by his own barely-contained misery. He coughed to cover the rush of tears and the fact that breathing was suddenly much harder than it normally ought to be, fear blooming in his chest.

_Ryn_. Something bad had happened. Something _very bad_.

He worked to pull himself together; breathing deeply, deliberately steadying his knees and shaking hands before someone noticed.

"My Prince?" a soft voice at his side, a gloved hand on his arm, supporting. He looked up because for a split second, it had sounded and felt like Ryn, but…

No. It was Bóna, the healer-turned-warrioress that Fíli had insisted accompany him. He believed the King's exact words to the lass had been, _"Don't you leave his side. Protect him, get him away from the Battle if necessary, bandage and fix him when he needs it. He'll fuss, but he'll comply."_ The older brother had levelled Kíli with a severe look, then hugged him roughly and gone to the large Mithril War Room that overlooked the plain outside the Great Gate.

"I am all right," he muttered. Bóna still didn't know of his Bond with Ryn—no one but Fíli did—so he could not tell her—

His head exploded in white-hot pain, so severe Kíli vaguely wondered if he'd been shot in the skull. He could barely feel his own fingers clutching his hair in a vain attempt to contain the agony; his ears were ringing, his eyes watering, and with booming finality, he heard the voice in his head that had whispered poison into his dreams for the last several weeks:

_Greetings, Son of Durin. It is time to give in._

"Mahal, no…"

_Oh yes. And you'll not even be able to ignore me now, I'm far too close for that._

Distantly, Kíli heard Bóna shouting for help.

"You can't do this. I won't allow it."

_I am beyond certain that you have no choice in the matter._

Kíli clenched his teeth. "There is always a choice."

_Not for you, Slave._

And suddenly, his old leg wound was on _fire_. The Prince bit his tongue hard enough he tasted blood—he couldn't scream, he refused put his archers through that. A faraway corner of his mind already knew how bad it was for a Commander to fall apart in front of his troops—he was demoralizing them simply by fighting this battle in his head, and the thought sent a wave of despair through Kíli.

Would he ever be worth anything as a Prince of Erebor?

_No_, Melkor's voice chuckled in his mind. _No, you won't._

"Kíli, Son of Dis, Heir of Durin!" a voice boomed through the screaming pain in his head, the ringing in his ears. He lifted watering eyes to see Gandalf standing before him, glowing and huge—more than a match for the Darkness clambering to take him over. He reached for the Istari, who placed a warm hand on his brow and murmured something unintelligible.

Pure warmth crept through Kíli's veins, quieting the agony in his nerves and shoving back Melkor's voice in his head long enough for the Prince to gather his own strength. He opened his eyes a moment later to see Bóna, Gandalf, and Dwalin standing over him, their expressions ranging from pride to worry. He blinked.

"Better?" the Istari asked. Kíli nodded and accepted Dwalin's hand up. The old warrior looked him over and dusted him off, leaning close.

"Should address your troops, laddie."

Kíli looked around, noting the silent, furtive looks his archers were sending him. They were terrified at what they'd just seen, he could tell; but not one had left his post, Kíli realized with a punch of pride.

"Lads, lassies," he projected his voice so it reached every archer in the vicinity, and they turned as one, all eyes on him. He stood up a little straighter at their respect, determined to deserve it. "The enemy we fight tonight is more than simple orcs gathered for a run on the Mountain." A few nodded, no one looked surprised: they were intelligent soldiers, each one, and though they'd been told very little about the upcoming fight, Kíli knew they'd figured out how much was at stake. He continued.

"It is a blend of every evil thing you've seen in your lives, and probably some things you haven't. Together, they are led and inspired by the greatest enemy our land has ever known: the Dark Vala, Melkor." He heard gasps this time—Melkor had not been seen or heard from since the end of the First Age, and many assumed he would never be again. "A portion of his Spirit has escaped the Void and intends to gather enough strength to bring him back to Arda fully. We must not allow this to happen."

Complete silence met his announcement, then: "How?" someone shouted. "How can we hope to challenge such power?"

Kíli saw in their eyes that it was a universal question amongst his people. He squared his shoulders. "We have many weapons today; not just bows, arrows, swords, axes, magic. _We_ have that which Melkor never could garner from any one of his followers, _ever_." Kíli raised his voice louder, unwilling to let any man under him harbor fear or doubt. He raised his own bow over his head and began to pace before those gathered. "Do you know who is represented among us this night? We are the dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills, true," he acknowledged, nodding at his own archers. "But we are also the Dunedain of the North!"

The Wandering Ones hollered. Kíli turned to face inside the Mountain, the Main Hub full of melee warriors.

"We are the Dwarves of Ered Mithrin!"

Roars of approval from the five hundred Duron had sent. Kíli gestured outside.

"We are the Men of Dale and Esgaroth! We are the Elves of Mirkwood! And we are the rogues, the vagabonds, the warriors for hire, the forgotten and cast out ones! We are fighters, every one, to the last! And Melkor cannot have what we are not willing to give up: our families, our livelihoods, our freedom!"

The cheers and roars of approval were nearly deafening, and Kíli turned back to his archers.

"Melkor thinks to control me through the morgul poison in my blood. But I hold you, my People, to the same charge which prevents my own despair: _WE SHALL NEVER SURRENDER_!"

His people thundered their agreement, and someone started a shout of "Du Bekar!" The cry was taken up, not only by the archers, but by the warriors down in the Hub, and the Dunedain, until the Mountain rang with it.

"DU BEKAR!"

_Du Bekar_, Kíli thought, eyes narrowed_. You cannot have me, and you cannot have my Home._

* * *

Talos had been trained by the finest warriors in what was, arguably, the most powerful remaining dwarf army in all of Middle Earth. He'd been raised to be a fighter from the time he was a tiny lad, his talents recognized and developed until _he_ was as much a weapon as his twin battleaxes. Situational awareness, battle planning, physical fitness, strategy—all these were as much a part of him as breathing.

The approaching goblins, of course, knew none of that; they made their way through the library with only a cursory attempt at being silent, snickering and nudging each other as they looked upon the young dwarf sleeping under the stained glass window. Curled up in a mound of blankets, eyes closed, breathing deep—yes, he was unconscious. Unaware.

So the largest of them stood over the youngling, raised his dirty sword, and snickered. His lackeys laughed in response, not even trying to be quiet now—even if the whelp woke up, it was too late, the large goblin had the advantage, and was the fastest of all of them.

It roared as it brought the sword down, and the others cheered, so that they did not hear the choked noise their leader made mere moments later, sword halfway down a lethal swing.

A long knife protruded from the goblin's back as it slumped forward, and the little ones grew quiet.

Talos had heard Ryn leave, somewhere in his subconscious, and had dismissed it, knowing she'd be back soon. When she hadn't returned a while later, he had begun to waken—and the sound of approaching feet (too many approaching feet), along with huffed breaths and little grunts and shuffles, had alerted the dwarf to the fact he was not alone in the Library.

A tiny crack in his eyelids had shown him with whom he was dealing, and he'd had to force himself not to grin.

He _loved_ it when they underestimated him.

Sure enough, they were stunned into silence when he stood, shoving their leader's body to the floor, and brandished his axes with a cocked eyebrow.

"So who's next?"

The fight was nothing Talos couldn't handle—though he was outnumbered, goblins were lousy warriors, quick to break and with no concept of teamwork—but he was concerned about his sister.

Where _was_ she?

A distant scream answered his question, and his blood ran cold.

"Rye!" he shouted, changing direction and making for the dark hallway that would lead him to the catacombs. He had to earn every step, however; so by the time he made it down there, slamming the heavy stone door on goblin's foot to prevent them getting inside, his sister had stopped screaming and instead he could just hear her sobbing—great, heaving sobs that twisted his heart. He didn't notice the glowing rune in the floor at all, but the light afforded him a view of Ryn, holding a figure in her arms and rocking back and forth.

"Rye?" he asked quietly, hurrying to her side. She seemed not to notice him, and Talos stopped when he caught a glimpse of the figure's face in the bright green light.

It was Elof.

The dwarf warrior felt the grief hit him like a smith's hammer to the chest. He couldn't breathe, and an unbearable ache started up in the vicinity of his heart.

"But…._no_….how?" he asked. Ryn just kept crying. Talos gripped her shoulders, shaking her a little. "Rye! How? What happened?"

Slowly, she raised swollen eyes, finally noticing him. A gasping sob.

"Talos, I couldn't…save him. He wouldn't let me…h-heal him…."

"Why?" Ryn let out a choked sound, and Talos shook her again. He was missing something big here, and he had no idea what was going on. "Ryn, _why_?"

His sister met his eyes and jerked her head in the direction of the glowing rune.

"For that."

Talos followed her gaze, and for the first time, noticed the unassuming felt bag inside the cavity in the floor. He blinked, barely able to process it.

_This_ was what they had come so far for.

The Starstone. It was _right there_, within reach, and he found—as he suspected Ryn did—that he felt very little desire to take it now.

The price had been too high.

But unlike Ryn, he wasn't so close to the whole thing to understand what Elof's sacrifice had accomplished. He pulled the lad's cooling body out of his sister's arms; she fought him at first, but gave up quickly, too tired to keep it up. Talos laid the lad out on the floor respectfully, straightening his legs and folding his arms over his chest. He laid Ryn's dagger, still slick with Elof's blood, on the young Man's folded hands and bowed his head briefly.

Ryn had quieted now, though she sat on her knees, hands limp in her lap, staring forward. Talos turned to her, letting Elof be for the moment. He placed a gentle hand between her shoulder blades, forcing himself not to pay attention to the goblins banging on the door with their swords and shouting. He doubted she even heard.

"Ryn," he murmured. "Take it."

She shook her head. "I don't want it."

"You do. Kíli _needs_ it, Rye, you have to take it."

"I _can't_." Her voice broke. "He—Talos, you didn't see his face."

Talos shook his head. "No, I didn't. And you owe me an explanation—after we get what we came here for. Rye, there are goblins outside, a lot of them. We've _got_ to get out of here."

Panic clouded her vision. "But what about Elof?"

"I—we'll burn his body."

Ryn looked stricken anew, but understood they had to protect his body from being desecrated. She nodded slowly, seeming to pull herself—temporarily, Talos knew—out of the despair that threatened to make this entire quest moot.

"For Kíli," she whispered, and reached forward to pluck the small bag from the Vault.

Cradling it in her hand, she pulled the drawstring and tipped its contents into her hand. A palm-sized gem fell out, glowing brightly in the dim green light. Ryn took a shuddering breath, and even Talos felt the air charge with ancient magic.

"_Mahal_," he whispered.

"Not quite," a gentle laugh rippled through the air, and suddenly, the light was so bright Talos had to blink. He pulled Ryn close, stumbling to his feet to face this new threat. It was difficult to see, but after a few seconds, Talos' gaze focused on a tall…_human?..._woman, clad in shimmering green and glowing from within. It was from her that the radiance originated, and her face was kind and sad.

"Aulë is my brother, my peer. But it was actually I who created the _Umräd_."

* * *

**A/N:** Soooooo...I'm really sorry guys. *hides in corner* Please don't assassinate me! It's not over yet, okay?


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Ryn knew that she needed to pull herself together and check back into the situation. She held the heavy jewel in her palm, still wet with Elof's blood, and fought back another wave of revulsion.

She didn't _want_ it.

Whoever had stuffed the Stone in that Vault had clearly intended for no one to ever get it out, for the price was so insufferably high that she was certain she'd never recover fully.

Sacrificing yourself was so much easier than watching someone you love sacrifice themselves.

With that began the self-recrimination: if she hadn't spent so much time mourning her own loss, if she'd just stiffened her spine and gone through with it before Elof arrived…

_Then he would've taken the Stone to Melkor,_ her mind supplied unhelpfully. _Against his will, he'd have been forced to serve the Darkness._

Mahal, her life was full of ghastly decisions.

"_Mahal_," her brother echoed beside her, and it took her a moment to realize he was in awe of the Stone. She supposed she could understand why: its power was making the air in the room crackle, filling her veins with something like hope and warming her from the inside out. But the grief was still far too near, and she just wanted to toss the thing back.

But Kíli needed it.

"Not quite," a new voice said, amused. Ryn's responses were slower than normal; but Talos' weren't, and he pulled her to her feet and drew her tight beside him while he tried to locate the threat.

But there didn't seem to be one. The whole room was filled with soft light and the air felt instantly cleaner, and Ryn knew it was because of the tall woman who stood before them. She knew instinctively who it was, and her guess was substantiated when the lass told them Aulë was her brother.

"Estë," she murmured a moment later, something like awe punching through the raging despair in her mind. Next to her, Talos made a little sound of shock, then let her go and bowed deeply to the Vala. Ryn thought vaguely she ought to follow suit, but couldn't bring herself to bow to the creator of this…_thing_…Elof had paid for with his life.

The Vala of Healing and Peace did not seem to mind. She favored Talos with a smile and a gesture of blessing, but then turned her gaze to the young lass before her. Ryn blinked, but did not look away.

Estë smiled. "Deorynn, Daughter of Haelric. How I have longed to meet you in person."

Ryn just blinked again, slightly dumbstruck. What did one say to such a pronouncement?

"You have been long awaited, my dear, you and that Prince of yours. And now, at last, the time of your Gifting has come: you bear the _Umräd_, and your beloved my husband's Blessing, and all that remains is to get you back to him. But first—" Here Estë turned to the prone body beside Talos and knelt. Ryn took half a tense step forward—what did she mean to do to Elof?—before realizing the foolishness of such a gesture. This was one of the Valar, the One whose duty it was to help mortal souls heal after their time on Arda was over.

Estë placed two bright fingers on the lad's cold forehead and murmured something Ryn did not understand. Instantly, Elof gasped and shot upright, eyes wide.

Ryn vaguely felt her knees hit the stone, but was honestly having trouble processing anything but Elof's blue eyes searching wildly for something. He saw Estë first, and winced a little, jaw dropping.

"Fear not, my son," she said gently. "You are well, and fully yourself now."

Elof paused, seeming to search himself to verify her words; his posture relaxed, and he let out a huff of air in shock. His hands probed his belly, startling at the clatter of Ryn's dagger landing on the stone when he knocked it off himself.

"But I was—"

"You were," Estë interrupted, smiling even wider now. "But the Vault only required that Sacrifice which would prove the nobility of the one trying to enter it. My part was then to come and repair the damage so that they may wield the Stone with honor."

"But I cannot wield it," Elof muttered.

"No," Estë responded. "You cannot. But you chose to sacrifice yourself for the sake of she who can; and therefore, the process still applies. You have been brought back, entirely healed of all physical afflictions—including that Dark Magic which Melkor's ilk placed upon you."

Oh.

Oh, _Elof_.

With that, the lad finally turned his azure eyes on her, a smile creeping over his face. Ryn couldn't smile—_it's too much_—but she went to her knees beside him and folded him into an embrace that was as much for her benefit as his. She felt Talos' strong arms encircle them both, and someone in their group was sobbing outright, though it was hard to tell who.

They stayed that way for some time, until Elof pulled back, letting out a shaky laugh. He looked at Ryn.

"So did you get it?"

She held the Stone out to him wordlessly, and he took it. The expression of awe on his face made her throat close up again.

"Now, my daughter," Estë spoke up again, her eyes fixed firmly on Ryn, who squirmed a little. "You are not well. Come to me."

"I am all right," she responded instinctively, her voice hoarse. Estë's gaze softened.

"You are exhausted, sick, and traumatized, child. Your bond with your beloved, while it has helped you both, has also meant you have each borne the pain and despair of _two_ people rather than just your own. You nearly killed a dear friend and watched him kill himself instead, on the heels of being ready to take your own life as sacrifice—all that less than an hour ago."

Ryn felt Talos' eyes burn the back of her head at that. Oh, she was going to have some explaining to do.

"You have been away from home for weeks, without the comfort of your beloved; and you have not slept in nearly three days. Come to me, young one, I can heal you."

Shaking now, Ryn stood and took the two steps to Estë's waiting arms. The Vala embraced her as a mother would, and Ryn's eyes sparked with tears at the vague memories it brought forth, of being held against her ma's warm chest as she hummed her to sleep. She felt Estë's hands—one between her shoulder blades, and one at the back of her head—and marveled at the pure energy that rushed from those points of contact into every nerve of her body; repairing, soothing, invigorating, until Ryn took a deep steadying breath and stepped back.

She marveled: her body felt better, yes, but more unexpectedly, her heart and mind did, too. For the first time in months, she had no doubt at all things were about to get a lot better.

"Thank you," she managed, fighting tears of relief as hope was renewed to her. Estë placed a tender hand upon her brow.

"You have lived with much pain for so long, child. It is time to let it go, for you have many years yet to endure here, and they can be so _happy_."

Ryn nodded and allowed herself a moment to revel in it, this…_renewal_, this completely foreign feeling of utter well-being, bone-deep joy. It filled her to the brim with a sense of peace that strengthened her in a way fear or anger never had.

Just when she began to feel nothing in the world could challenge her, a shock of fear echoed through her mind—a sensation she recognized as Kíli, far away and still suffering under Melkor's poison. The feeling, instead of making her panicky or frightened, solidified her determination. She pulled back from the Vala, sending as much of her newfound strength to him as she could, and set her jaw.

"Kíli," was all she had to say, and Estë smiled.

"I have much to tell you that will help save him."

* * *

The archers had engaged the orcs not long after Kíli's impromptu speech. The creatures had made the mistake of trying to use ladders and catapults against the Main Gate; their best efforts met with nothing but dead fighters, frayed ropes (thanks to the precise aim of the Dunedain archers), and broken bones. The Mountain, under Fíli's direction, was as much a weapon as any sword or bow; countless times that night, an orc battalion found themselves the victims of a very localized earthquake or a sinkhole, or individual goblins stepped unwittingly into tiny gopher holes that twisted ankles and destroyed the soundness of the earth beneath their heavy war machines.

Fíli and Kíli sent messages to one another via raven through the night, utilizing Fíli's unique perspective of the battle through the senses of the Mountain and Kíli's ever-strengthening connection to the Dark Lord who bided his time just behind the rear guard of the opposing army.

_Smaller group, east side, trying to surprise us._

_I see it, they just met a giant sinkhole. Movement to the north?_

_Scouts. And more battering rams, etc, brought by War Beasts._

_Oh look, an earthquake._

_And the ravens. They're swarming up there._

This went on until nearly dawn, when Kíli's warning helped them fend off a strike team that had somehow made its way up the side of the mountain and were planning to sneak inside via the air vents. Gandalf looked over at the young Durin Prince.

"How did you know about that?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Kíli shrugged.

"Melkor is so close I can see his plans before they happen."

The Istari shook his head. "I don't think that's it, Kíli. You know what it was like when his mind touched yours last night—you're not in enough pain for it to be the telepathic connection you share with him."

Kíli tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "What else could it possibly be, Gandalf?"

"Have you been visited by the Valar any time recently, even in your dreams?"

"Have I…._what_?" Kíli sounded flabbergasted. He nearly dismissed the idea entirely, but something held him in check.

_Had_ he been visited by a Vala?

"Well there was one dream, but it is horribly foggy, and I'm sure it was nothing. I heard a deep voice say _'It is time._' "

Gandalf latched onto this bit of information. "How did you feel? When you awoke, were you different in any way?"

Kíli tilted his head, brow furrowing. "I was…stronger? Less beaten down. Like I knew our victory was at least possible, if not completely assured. It was just a—"

"No," the wizard interrupted. "It wasn't _just_ a dream. I saw it before; and now I am certain. You have been given the Gift of Irmo, Kíli. You are a Seer. One of an elite team of two appointed by the Valar once in an age to defeat the forces of evil."

Kíli stared at him blankly.

"It is an ancient story, relegated to the annals of legend now; but I was alive when it happened, Kíli, and I know it did happen. The peoples of Middle Earth were promised it by Este and Irmo, a set of Gifts that, used together, could defeat any Darkness."

"That can't be."

"It _is_."

Kíli looked frustrated. "But I have the darkness _inside_ of me, Gandalf, have you missed that detail? It is _in_ me, fighting with every breath to overtake me, turn me into something I'm not!"

"Which is why you cannot yet use the Gift to its fullest," the old man replied, eyes twinkling. "Not until the other half of the Promised pair arrives."

"Which is who?"

Gandalf smiled. "The Healer."

Kíli stilled.

_Ryn._

_No._

_Yes._ He felt it in his bones_. __**Yes**__._

"Ryn?" he had to be sure. Gandalf nodded, and he felt his heart drop into his stomach.

"But Gandalf, she's….halfway across Middle Earth."

The wizard looked troubled. "I know. But you are here with me, and I will protect you however I can until she returns. That was my promise."

Kíli shook his head, about to reply, when a sudden vision assaulted him. This wasn't like the others; an easy knowledge, a simple realization—this was, as Gandalf had said, Melkor's mind touching his own. And it was _excruciating_.

_Ryn, in a dark stone hall, deep underground. How did he know that? He wasn't sure, but he didn't have time to worry about it, as he saw her grip a dagger in her two hands. She was on her knees, sobbing, and he realized with a punch of terror that the blade was pointed toward the soft flesh of her belly._

_Kíli wanted to scream but found himself mute, hearing only the poisonous voice of the Dark Vala in his head:_

_She never told you. She kept it from you, that the Vault wherein the Starstone resides requires the ultimate sacrifice in order to open. _

_No._

_**NO**__._

_This was impossible. Only the darkest of creatures used such spells, and the Stone had been hidden by Eiri warrior, Elof had said…_

_Fárbjóðr was a descendent of the Eiri, Melkor supplied helpfully. Didn't stop him from using Dark spells and being all-around cruel._

_Ryn!_

_Just as she tensed to shove the blade into her own body, Kíli gasped at a wave of warm strength that coursed through him, throwing him out of the vision._

He was sitting on the ground against the wall, Gandalf kneeling beside him, a hand on his brow. The strength had come from him?

No, Kíli realized. It was an _echoey_ feeling, soft and familiar and not coming from the wizard right beside him. At least not entirely.

He shuddered when he realized: it was Ryn. And if it was strength, determination…she was still alive.

For now.

He gripped Gandalf's arm. "She has to sacrifice herself! To open the Vault she has to…" he petered off, the despair choking him in spite of the echoes of Ryn's emotions that still bounced around his skull.

_Ah, Kíli,_ Melkor's voice came again, louder than ever, made stronger by the Prince's horror at Ryn's fate. Gandalf was shouting in the distance, but Kíli couldn't hear what he was saying. _What a shame. She was a strong one; what a shame your stupid decision all those months ago killed her in the end._

He didn't sound like he thought it much of a shame at all.

Kíli screamed.

* * *

Elof watched closely as Estë spoke to his friend in soft tones. Ryn was soaking it up, and the look on her face—a mix of awe and determination—made him want to smile.

He couldn't _quite_ manage it though.

Healed he may be, but he still had not properly mourned his mother's death—and he couldn't help but feel just a little bit cheated, for he had been so close to being with her and his father again before Estë brought him back. His heart ached for them, and he blinked rapidly to keep the tears back.

He was _not_ all right, and he knew it. It was going to take time for him to be happy, if he ever did manage it. Between being robbed of his entire family and held in captivity—tortured, forced, mistreated—for a good many of his formative years, Elof was under no delusions; he was damaged, and badly. He wondered if he would someday be well—_truly _well.

There were some wounds which just never healed.

A heavy hand landed gently on his shoulder, and he jumped, skittering backward. "It's just me!" Talos murmured, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry, Elof, it's just me."

Breathing hard, the lad nodded. "Of course, I'm sorry. Sorry."

Talos gave him a strained smile. "It's not your fault. Whatever they put you through; it must've been awful, eh?"

Elof just swallowed. His friend sat slowly and carefully across from him, as if afraid to spook him. He was grateful for it, though the necessity made him want to scream and throw something.

"I'm glad you're all right," Talos said, his voice wavering just a little. Elof stared at him. "When I got down here and saw her holding your…your _body_…." Talos trailed off, shuddering.

Elof squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I had to do it, or she was going to. And with the Magic that held me, better I died than she."

Talos nodded. "I want to say I appreciate it, but…" The younger dwarf seemed troubled, uncertain, then threw his hands in the air in frustration. "I don't know. It was awful, anyhow, and I'm glad you're back and completely yourself."

Elof forced a smile for his friend, and wondered how many years he'd have to force it before things got better.

"Then let's go," he heard Ryn say, and Talos helped him to his feet. The four faced one another; Ryn and Talos raring to go, Elof looking between the two hopelessly, and the Vala studying him.

"One last thing," Estë said, a hand raised. Talos and Ryn looked to her, but she simply looked at him.

Elof squirmed.

"I am taking Deorynn and Talos back to Erebor immediately," Estë began, and Elof felt his stomach clench at that—why not him?

Was this some sort of punishment?

"But you have a choice," she finished, and Elof blinked confusedly.

_A choice?_

She nodded, seeming to read his mind. "Some wounds never do heal, young one. You have suffered more than one such wound in your short life, with little time to recover between them. Should you choose to stay, you may have that time now—but perhaps not. The world darkens further every day."

Ryn's eyes were narrower now, though she hadn't looked away from Estë. Talos just looked confused.

"But if you wish," Estë continued, her eyes full of compassion at the pain he somehow knew she understood—really _understood_. "You may come with me back to Valinor. Your parents await you there, in my Gardens. Your healing will be both guaranteed and hastened there, so far from the Darkness."

"You want him to choose to die…_again_?" Ryn choked, and now her eyes were wide with horror, looking between the Vala and the Human.

"No," Estë assured her. "I want him to be healed, I want him to be rested and content and happy. It would be no death, merely a journey to another land with me. It would be more like the way of the Elves than that of Men—" Here, she addressed Elof again. "A gift, for your faithfulness despite the horrific experiences you've been subjected to. Simply an offer. You may choose for yourself."

Elof blinked, truly considering her words. It was, if he was honest, exactly what he wanted—a chance to rest, to heal, to be with his family again.

It would be painless, too, and there was little guarantee his second death would be that easy.

On the other hand, Ryn and Talos' faces told him his…_departure_…would indeed hurt them.

How many minutes he stood considering, he didn't know. No one rushed him, hurried him along, begged him to choose one way or another. He could tell his friends wanted to, but they seemed to understand it was his own choice to make.

_To stay, or to go?_

Finally, he looked Estë in the eyes, her greens meeting his blues. "I thank you for your kind offer, My Lady," he answered, and shifted his gaze to Ryn, speaking to the Vala but needing his friend to understand. "I wish to journey with you to Valinor."

_And Ryn and Talos will be all right without me,_ he didn't add, but he knew it was true.

Ryn's face paled, and a quick glance at Talos showed the young warrior fighting tears—and losing. Elof held his arms open and folded them both tightly against him when they came to him without hesitation.

"I am sorry," he whispered. "I will be all right there. I will be _better_ than all right. _You_ will be all right here—you'll both be fine." Talos nodded, though Ryn just trembled in Elof's arms. He kissed her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"No," she said, pulling back to look at him, eyes puffy and red. "Do not apologize, _mellon_. This decision is your right, and we do not begrudge you it." Talos nodded in agreement.

"Don't worry about us, Elof; go, and be happy."

The Human lad managed the first true smile he'd flashed in what seemed like ages, backing up toward Estë, squeezing his friends' hands one last time.

"Be well, take care of each other. I'll be waiting for you there."

The light Estë radiated became brighter as he spoke, filling him with warmth and comfort like he'd not known since childhood. One more step back, and the world faded away. Elof closed his eyes, and let it happen.

Gray mist surrounded him, and he blinked to clear it. It dissipated slowly, until he could see two very familiar silhouettes standing nearby, and the dearest voice he'd ever heard called out to him.

"My son?"

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah, so. There were definitely tears shed during the creation of this chapter, so believe me; to whatever level this upsets you, I promise I relate completely. That said, please do leave a review-I always love to hear about how the story makes you feel and what you think about it!

Thanks to **summerald** for encouraging me through this one-as I said, it was a tough chapter to write-and for her awesome beta skills!

Cheers!


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Despite the Mountain's own defenses and the skill of both dwarven and human archers, it was only a matter of a few hours before one of the lumbering battering rams made its way to the Great Gate of Erebor. On the west flank, Bard's Men and the mercenaries still waited silently in the darkness, while Thranduil's elves slowly snuck into positions south of the massive orc army; but they wouldn't attack until after the dwarves' main force behind the Gate engaged the enemy.

Melkor had assaulted Kíli's mind three more times since Gandalf had shared his theory, when he'd forcibly thrown the poisonous presence out. Each time, it became more difficult to hold onto what was real, and the young prince worried it would soon become impossible to continue, afraid that for all everyone else's efforts to protect him—the wizard, Bóna, and even Dwalin steadfastly refused to leave his side for even a moment—he was going to be defeated in the end, by a weapon far more deadly than any arrow or sword.

His own mind was beginning to fail him, he could sense it.

_Ryn, please be alive, my love. Hurry back to me…_

Melkor was a liar, he held onto that knowledge. There was no reason to believe Ryn was dead—indeed, he could still sense her determination, fearless and potent, echoing across their Bond. He took heart in it, and he was fairly certain it was the one thing lending him the power to keep resisting the Dark Vala.

Nevertheless, his leg was screaming in agony as he ran down the stairs to the Hub, where the dwarves were waiting (somewhat impatiently) for the battering ram to do its work, each one eager to enter the fray.

He was no exception. Fighting may not have been the wisest idea, in his shape; but he needed it. He needed to do _something_ to finish this, for the sooner they defeated the monsters at the door, the sooner Ryn would have a clear path home—hopefully with the _Umräd_.

"How are you?" Gandalf asked quietly when Kíli positioned himself at the head of the dwarf army and raised his sword, eliciting another cheer as he showed his people Melkor hadn't won yet.

"I am…" he tried to find a word for exactly _what_ he was right now: frightened, weakened, shaking, frustrated, angry, exhausted. Determined. Stubborn. "…fine."

Gandalf raised a single gray brow at him. "I believe that about as fully as I believe Radagast is entirely sane."

Kíli hesitated. "But…I thought Radagast was your friend?"

"He is. That does not mean he's entirely sane."

Kíli barked a surprised laugh, and Gandalf smiled. "Better."

He stood for a moment, feeling the _boom!_ of the battering ram as it assaulted the Gate. Somewhere in his mind, he could see it breaking through; the influx of filthy orcs and assorted other enemies, the surge of dwarves as _DU BEKAR!_ echoed through his head, Gandalf beside him raising his staff into attack position, Bóna and Dwalin ringing him as he jumped forward into the melee. It would happen, and soon.

"Will she make it back to us?" he asked of the Istari.

Gandalf didn't answer for a moment. "I think yes," he answered. "It is impossible for me to know for certain. What does your Gift tell you?"

Kíli snorted. "That the ram will accomplish its task in less than sixty seconds. Nothing more."

He was not wrong.

* * *

Ryn blinked, swaying on her feet. Valar teleportation was not easy on a body, she noticed as her stomach rebelled and her head ached, and she moaned, gasping a breath of clean night air. She was outside now, she could tell; Talos was still beside her, shifting a bit as he tried to get his balance. The moon was full and the stars were out, she could see they were standing on a small outcropping on the side of a—

_Mountain_. Ryn smiled.

They were home. She recognized this spot; it was the ledge before the secret door. _The_ secret door, the one they had opened while retaking Erebor from Smaug. She wondered vaguely why Estë hadn't just dropped them at the Great Gate or in Dale, until her ears finally caught up with her other senses.

Hoarse shouts, the clang of weapons, the whistle of arrows, orcish war cries.

"_Mahal_," Talos whispered, looking over the ledge. She followed suit and yelped, backing up as an arrow narrowly missed her skull. The valley around the secret door was _seething_ with orcs, their misshapen faces leering up at her even as they growled challenges and insults.

"What is going on?" she muttered, though she thought she probably knew the answer already.

Talos snorted. "Melkor."

She nodded.

"How will we get inside?"

Ryn thought, hard and fast. There had to be a way to let _someone_ know they were here...

Her gaze landed on the War Flock that chose that moment to whirl into the valley, pecking and screaming and scratching their rage.

_Ravens!_

* * *

"Fíli," Balin called his name, and Fíli forcibly dragged his consciousness back from the Mountain and into his body. He was lightheaded and sweating, his knees shaking with the effort and enormity of what he was doing. Leaning heavily on the mithril staff, Fíli stepped out of the circle of runes and into Balin's waiting arms as his legs decided they had carried him long enough and gave out beneath him.

"Gently, my King," the old scholar's voice was soothing in his ears as he lowered him to the hard stone floor. "You have done well, rest for a moment."

He felt the stone vibrate as the catapults started up now that he was no longer destroying them using the Mountain's own defenses.

"Not for long," he gasped, closing his eyes. He leaned his head back against the wall, listening to the distant sounds of battle—the orcs had breached the Gate at last only minutes ago. It had been part of the plan, after all, but it still sent massive shocks through him when it happened, as though he had been broken by the battering ram _himself_.

That was when Balin had begun calling him back, trying to guide him out of the trance he'd unwittingly entered and let him regroup.

"Thanks," he muttered to the older dwarf, who chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"We are holding our own, lad; your plan is working well."

"Golden King! Golden King!" a raven's scream made Fíli wince, and he struggled upright just as one of the smaller corvids shot into the room. She pulled up short just long enough to locate him and then dove straight at his outstretched arm.

"Dax," he forced his voice to be calm. "Settle, lass, you found me. It is all right. What news?"

The bird panted, ruffling her feathers agitatedly. "Spring Lassie needs to enter Gold-Lit Halls!"

_Spring Lass—_

"Ryn is _here_?" he exclaimed, and Dax squawked and unfurled her wings, startled by his agitation. "No, no, good girl. I'm sorry. Where is she?"

"Secret door! Secret door!"

Fíli looked at Balin, who did not hesitate. In a clink of mail, he turned and strode out, headed for the door he and the Company had entered by when Smaug still inhabited their home a year ago.

"Good lass," Fíli soothed the hen. "Can you carry a message for me?"

Dax nodded and polished her beak on his gauntlet affectionately. He smiled, in spite of the situation.

"Tell Raven Prince—"

A sound like a thunderclap interrupted Fíli, and he had a vague impression of the floor beneath his feet shifting, then shattering, then he was falling.

He didn't even have time to cry out before something struck him hard and blackness descended.

* * *

Kíli knew, the moment he fought his way outside the gate to the plain outside, that overwhelming numbers of orcs weren't the extent of Melkor's battle plan. His stomach curdled as certain knowledge assaulted him: liquid green balls of fire, landing amongst his men and on the Mountain itself, eating away at flesh and stone…

"Scatter!" he roared. "Fight in pairs and scatter amongst them!"

The warriors did not hesitate, and moments later the first of the missiles landed not fifty feet from Kíli, exploding in a spectacular display. The impact shoved him backward, and as he fell, his vision blurred.

_You are mine._

"No, not again," he muttered to himself, finding that nub of strength that was Ryn and holding on for dear life. The Voice in his head chuckled.

_That won't work forever. All I have to do…_

In seeming slow motion, just like in his dream, Kíli raised his eyes to see a bolt of livid-green magic sail over his head and strike the mountain face just above the Great Gate.

…_is destroy your dear big brother…_

Rock exploded and crumbled, exactly where the War Room had been; and unlike in his dream, Fíli never ducked aside or surfed the rubble as it settled. Seconds passed like years, and Kíli just stared, disbelieving. Melkor's voice hissed in his head again.

_...and you're mine._

* * *

"Ah, at last," Balin's voice was hoarse with fatigue, but he smiled as he pushed open the heavy door and ushered Ryn and Talos inside. His familiar beard and blue eyes, dull though they were with worry and exhaustion, unlocked something inside the Eiri lass; she swallowed the hard lump of tears in her throat and hugged him.

"I'm so happy to see you," she whispered. "Where is he?"

"At the Gate," the old dwarf answered. "We've been awaiting you. Come."

Sharing a look with Talos, Ryn followed Balin through the winding passages. She touched the walls absently as she went, remembering traversing this particular route with Kíli in tow the night before the Battle of Five Armies. They had both been giggly, drunk on each other's lips, so in love and blissfully unaware of the poison that worked at his blood and mind even then.

Ryn clenched her jaw to keep from stopping right there and collapsing in a weeping heap.

_Mahal_, she was so _tired_.

But the weight of the Stone in her pocket drove her forward—she hadn't come this far to stop and rest now. She could rest when Kíli was healed and Melkor dealt with—

Ryn gasped as the floor beneath her feet shook and what must've been a massive concussion boomed through the hall. She heard distant screams, and started running, Talos at her heels. Balin hurried too, his stride longer than both of theirs as he led them to the Great Gate of Erebor.

The sight that met them stopped the air in her lungs.

The Gate was decimated, it looked like, by the now-destroyed battering ram that sat abandoned just inside the Hub. Dwarves fought orcs, goblins, even some mewlips and assorted other monsters throughout the Hub and outside on the plain. But the worst of the damage had just been inflicted moments ago—though by _what_, Ryn couldn't tell—because the dust hadn't even yet settled.

It looked like a cave-in; massive chunks of Erebor stone collapsed in heaps, tangled with the twisted metal and splintered wood of the Gate, and shouts of distress mingled with battle cries in her ears.

"_Mahal_," Balin choked just in front of her. "Fíli!" He shot off toward the rubble, drawing his sword as he went. Talos made to follow, but Ryn grabbed his arm.

"Kíli," she said, eyes wide and throat closing. Their Bond was humming with his agony and terror, and she had to find him.

She _had_ to.

Talos nodded, and she squeezed his arm gratefully, turning and making for the demolished Gate. Something, _something_ told her he was outside, that he would've led from the front, that he'd have been the first out the moment the Mountain was breached.

_Kíli_, his name was a silent plea. _Hang on, just a little longer…_

* * *

Anora peeled her eyes open forcibly, moaning at the breathtaking agony in her head. She raised a shaking hand to her right temple, and it came away sticky with her own blood.

"Blast," she muttered, turning over in spite of the various pains that assaulted her at the movement. She would be fine, probably; but she'd been standing mere feet from Fíli when the world had exploded, and he was her first concern.

A moment forced itself forward in her memory: Fíli's golden braids flying as his head jerked with the force of the concussion, just before her world went black. Shuddering, she cried out his name, hoping against hope that he would answer her.

"Fíli!"

Nothing.

_Mahal, please no._

"Fíli!" She crawled over rubble to the edge of what was left of the War Room, looking over at the massive piles of shattered stone that now rested in the Hub and the plain outside what had been the Great Gate. If he had taken that fall…

_No._ She wouldn't think it.

"Fíli!"

She wasn't the only one left alive; several of her fellow guards were stirring now, calling out for each other and for the king, checking themselves and anyone within reach, trying to do something to help. Her gaze swept the remains of the Room, cataloguing everything she could see: dust, broken mithril veins that had been sung into the stone ages earlier, piles of debris, a scrap of blue amongst mail armor—

_Mahal_.

"Fíli!" Anora stumbled toward him, his head and right shoulder hanging over the edge. He was so desperately close to falling, she didn't even notice the stabbing pain in her left side as she struggled to pull him back onto more solid ground. "Help me!" She shouted to no one in particular, even as she started cataloguing her friend's wounds.

A definitely-broken right forearm. Blood from multiple wounds all over his legs—it looked as though he'd met with a boulder to the legs as he flew. Bruises and scratches over nearly every bit of exposed skin. But most frightening: swelling and magnificent bruising from his left temple all the way down to his jaw.

He did not respond when she slapped him firmly to wake him. "Fíli! Wake up!"

He lay deathly still, skin gray and pallid beneath her hands.

"Fíli!"

* * *

Ryn let loose an angry cry as she cut down yet another orc on her way to the remains of the Gate. Naryaturë sang with the movement, the long blade bright beneath the blue-black blood of her enemies that coated it. She and Talos had been beset upon by Melkor's ilk the moment she set foot in the Hub, and the assault had yet to let up. It was as frustrating as it was terrifying—there would normally have been waves of enemies, giving her time to regroup, breathe; but there were just _so many_, it didn't matter the number she killed.

There was always another to take their place.

Shouts echoed across the plain, though, moments later, and the orcs' attentions split just long enough for Ryn to gasp a few welcome breaths. She scaled a pile of rubble to get a better view, Talos on her heels, and saw another flank of their allies attacking from the west and the south. Without context, it was impossible to tell who or what they were, but she recognized the long arrows sailing into the main force of orcs and smiled.

So Fíli had at least secured Thranduil's assistance here, and probably Bard's too. It was something.

A shout drew her attention just then.

"KĺLI, NO!"

She whirled to see Gandalf yanking Glamdring from an orc's bloody chest, but he wasn't even looking at his defeated foe. His gaze was wide and panicked, and looking past her. She turned, trying to see, and felt her heart stop.

Orcs, mewlips, goblins—the enemy lines were parting, as if to let someone through. Her eyes widened when a mail-clad, raven-haired figure climbed a small hillock and bowed before four warlocks that stood atop it. They grinned wickedly, and the tallest of them nodded his bald, tattooed head as they welcomed him into their midst. He turned and stood with them, surveying the battlefield from their position.

_Oh Valar, no, please no._

"Kíli!"

* * *

**A/N: Sorry I'm not sorry** about the cliffie thing. _Again_. To atone, I have Chapter 24 about half written already, so it shouldn't be too long of a wait for that one.

Thanks to all of you who reviewed this last chapter! I really appreciate your feedback, it makes me better! Also, huge thanks to **summerald** for her help with this chapter-it was not easily born, I tell you. Blood, sweat, and tears and all that.

Hang in there, friends, we're almost at the end of this crazy ride!


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Ryn swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. Everything in her wanted to just…_stop_. Shut down. Give up.

It was over. He was _gone_. She'd failed, been too slow, hadn't made it in time.

The Starstone shifted in her pocket, its weight anchoring her; and just as quickly as it came, the despair was replaced by something much stronger. It bloomed in her chest, sharp and hot and demanding _action_. Ryn welcomed it, this refusal to accept what her eyes were telling her, this rejection of the situation.

_Defiance_, she recognized, and smiled grimly. Without another thought, she dove into the mass of orcs and mewlips that stood between her and her beloved.

_I did not…_

"Ryn!" Talos shouted, running after her. She cut down a massive orc—Gundabad, she recognized—who bared its teeth and charged her; moving past its dying body and engaging the next, a smallish goblin that stared wide-eyed as her dagger found its heart…

_...just traverse half of Middle Earth…._

Swing, parry, run, duck, thrust…

_...and very nearly kill myself…_

She roared in pain as a war club glanced her shoulder, the embedded spikes ripping deeply into the muscle. The press was too thick, she had no room to maneuver, Talos was right beside her but there was a crude sword aimed for his head, swinging downward in a lethal arc.

_...to acquire the one thing that could save you…_

Ryn grasped the life forces of twenty of the closest enemies and yanked, shoving Talos down as she let the excess fly in a firestorm that cleared the thirty yards around them in a circle. She stumbled a little from the energy it took, but healed herself and Talos as they ran.

_...for you to give up the moment I got here!_

The next several minutes were a flurry of kicks, thrusts, and parries as she and her brother cut through the press of orcs and mewlips like butter. She should have been impressed at that, really, but there was no time.

After what seemed like hours, though was really only minutes, Ryn found herself breaking into the open circle where stood four of the ugliest, most terrifying Men—Wild Men of the East, covered in tattoos and piercings and with glowing eyes—and her _âzyungel_, her Kíli. He stared blankly before him, his own eyes glazed over white and his skin beginning to crack, black mist seeping from the wounds. Ryn wanted to scream.

But she wasn't given time. A blast of green passed her, missing her head by inches, and she turned to see it strike her brother square in the face. He looked shocked as he fell back and lay unmoving.

"TALOS!" she screamed, at his side instantly. She tried to access her Sight, but she was having trouble breathing, mind racing, the magic kept slipping away.

_Mahal, everything is falling apart…_

But his heart was beating and he was breathing and—

She shuddered when she heard a soft laugh. She knew that laugh, knew the timbre of it and the languid pace, as though he had all the time in the world to enjoy the joke.

But it was still wrong. It was too harsh, too low, and when she turned her heart broke in her chest.

Kíli was laughing. _At her._

Except it wasn't _him_. His eyes were alight now, red instead of their normal rich brown, and she knew she wasn't facing her beloved anymore. Slowly she stood, fear gone entirely, to be replaced by hot and overwhelming fury.

"Leave him," she ordered, in a voice so threatening she barely recognized it as her own.

Kíli's lips laughed again, and the bleeding pieces of her heart spasmed in response. He looked down at her arrogantly.

"No."

Reaching for her magic, Ryn started toward him. She growled two steps later when she found herself suspended in midair, unable to move. She had garnered the warlocks' attention, it seemed; their combined spells had her feet twelve inches off the dirty grass of the little hillock they stood upon.

She gasped when her brain registered a second later:

It _hurt_.

It was burning and freezing and tearing and every single nerve was singing with pain. She couldn't help the cry of agony that escaped, though it morphed into a scream of rage when Melkor directed Kíli to take a step closer and grin up at her.

"Kíli!" she gasped, fighting the tightness in her chest and throat. Oh _Mahal_, they were going to kill her right here and now and nothing she'd done over the past six weeks was going to account for anything.

She wanted to cry. Instead she fought.

"Kíli, _please_…"

"He is no more," now Kíli's voice was changing; deepening, taking on a hatred and rage that was wholly unfamiliar and sounded so very wrong coming from his lips. "I am in control now. And the first act I shall command of my new Servant?" An evil grin. "He will slit your throat, without mercy, without hesitation."

He would do it too, Ryn could tell by the blank look in those red eyes. Her Kíli was not in command, not able to wrest control from Melkor. He took two more steps and he was right in front of her, drawing his dagger. She choked when she recognized it as the one Fíli had forged for him for his thirtieth birthday. She knew it was one of his most treasured possessions, and to see it handled by Melkor shattered her heart further.

"Kíli, please!" she begged. He grinned and pulled his hand back to strike at her exposed throat—

Everything went white, and Ryn wondered for a split second if it had happened, if she was dead; until she opened her eyes to find herself lying in the mud, blinking harshly. The sounds of battle were coming back to her, and Kíli's leg rested inches from her nose.

_What?_

"Lady Deorynn, now!" a deep, wizened voice shouted from far away—_Gandalf. Stunning spell._—but even in her dazed state, Ryn found herself obeying. She fumbled in her pocket, the hard cold of the Starstone meeting her fingers.

Instantly, she was awake.

She crawled the two feet to Kíli's head and cradled it in her lap. She swiped at the tears on his face, shocked to realize they were hers, heard herself muttering, "Hold on, love, I'm here...going to fix this..._please_, Kíli, just _hold on_…"

She fumbled to remove his breastplate—a much less easy task than it sounded—and shoved her hand down beneath the leathers and shirt underneath it. Resting her open palm, Stone in it, on his bare chest, she pressed down and murmured the ancient words Estë had taught her:

"_Mygi kraftr Valar o öldengunym upraet hið ila semme renur í gegnum æðar pínar."_

Kíli gasped and Ryn yelped as the Stone burned in her palm, white-hot. Still she refused to move, digging deep for her strongest magic and bringing it to bear on his broken body.

"_Mygi kraftr Valar o öldengunym upraet hið ila semme renur í gegnum æðar pínar."_

_Come back to me, Kíli._

It was working, she could sense it. His heart was beating a wild tattoo under her hand, his breath coming in shallow gasps, whimpers of pain escaping his throat. He opened his eyes—white again—and screamed.

"_Mygi kraftr Valar o öldengunym upraet hið ila semme renur í gegnum æðar pínar!"_

Her ears were ringing and her head pounding as Kíli's back arched and a blast of silver rolled around them, originating at his heart. His scream choked off into a cough and suddenly he was pulling away from her, turning over, retching into the grass; and she was falling backward, weakened and nauseous herself, dropping the Stone into the mud as her numb fingers lost the ability to hold onto it.

Forcing herself to remain upright, Ryn looked over at Kíli. He was breathing heavily now, on his hands and knees. Ryn wasn't sure if it had worked or not.

_Look up, my love. Please look up._

He did, a moment later, and when his eyes met hers, she promptly burst into tears.

They were brown.

* * *

Kíli blinked against the dizziness that held him tight in its clutches. He was on his hands and knees, he realized, and his head was _aching_ and positively _swimming_; but his ears told him he was still on the battlefield.

No time to rest, not just yet. He didn't know what had tossed Melkor out of his head this time, but he needed to get himself together and be ready to fight again. The loss of Fíli still made his chest ache—more than it already physically did, which was odd—but he wasn't giving up.

He _couldn't._

Kíli forced his head up, eyes streaming with the sting of it.

_Oh Mahal._

Ryn was sitting on her rump, just beyond arm's reach, her eyes wide and face pale. Kíli drank her in—_it had been too long, far __**far**__ too long_—her mussed chestnut curls in complete disarray, a thin stream of blood dripping from her nose, and—

Mahal, was she _crying_?

Kíli reached for her; with a little sob of distress, she lurched forward, her forehead bashing him in the chin as she shoved him back with the force of her embrace. Kíli barely noticed, completely overwhelmed by the sensation of her in his arms again, after so long, _finally_.

"Ryn," he choked, relishing the taste of her name on his tongue. "_Amrâmilê_."

She sobbed outright at the endearment, squeezing him closer. His ribs screamed in protest—seemed like _everything_ hurt—but he didn't care. He wanted her close, _closer_, he wanted to hold her—

"Ryn, Kíli!" a familiar voice, gruff with concern and urgency, just over their heads. Kíli looked up to see Gandalf, eyes wide with relief. "Did it work?"

The Prince blinked. "Did _what_ work?"

Ryn pulled back, placed her warm palm on his jaw. "You don't remember?" she asked, at the same time Gandalf answered, "The _Umräd_." Ryn's eyes drooped, unfocused, and Kíli knew she was accessing her Sight to look at him. A smile started at the corners of her lips and spread slowly.

Blinking, she looked up at the wizard, a little awed. "It worked. Gandalf," she sobbed out a little choking laugh. "It _worked_. He is…in perfect health."

Kíli just stared. She crushed him to her again. "Kíli, no more Melkor. No more morgul poison. It's _over_."

He gasped at the pang of joy that beset him, making his stomach flip. "Are you sure?" he whispered, unwilling to be let down by hope once again.

"Yes."

"No," came a new voice, and Kíli's stomach dropped like a stone. He _knew_ That Voice. "It is not over." He stood so fast he nearly fell over, dragging Ryn with him and shoving her back, shielding her from what he knew he'd see as soon as he located That Voice. She didn't fight him—yet—but gasped when they turned a little to their left and Melkor was suddenly _there_.

He wasn't quite strong enough to actually be corporeal, but the gray pre-dawn light allowed them to see him well enough. The Dark Vala was a thick fog in humanoid form, features muted and dark, except for two bright red eyes. Little wisps of dark smoke leaked from his form, dissipating in the wind, and he held a massive sword that seemed to be made of the same mist he was.

Kíli was willing to bet it didn't _strike_ like mist, though.

"You," Ryn growled from over his shoulder, and he didn't even have time to marvel again at her propensity to get mouthy with the bad guys before she stepped forward. "You son of a motherless orc, you _disgusting_, vile lump of swill. He is not yours anymore."

Red eyes flashed. "You and your…_trinket_…may have made my job a little harder, but your victory is far from won, little whore."

Ryn and Kíli both growled at that, but Gandalf stepped in front of them both before anyone could do more than snarl. He held his staff before him, the stone at the top glowing brightly. Melkor seemed to almost smirk at that.

"Olórin. You cannot possibly think to challenge one of the Valar with your little…stick."

Gandalf did not deign to respond, except to growl a spell Kíli didn't understand. It shoved the Vala back a few steps and forced a grunt of pain from him, but Melkor came back with a roar of rage, misty sword raised high.

Kíli did not think, only stepped forward with his own blade held high in defense. He sensed rather than saw Ryn do the same, _Naryaturë_ crossing his own sword to intercept Melkor's blow. A flash of fear—_even the two of them together were no match for a Vala_—and the dark blade struck their intersecting ones. There was a tremendous crash like thunder, and blinding golden light, and Kíli suddenly remembered Gandalf's recounting of the prophecy:

"_For when two souls unite in purpose, the Healer and the Seer, the power of the Valar shall come forth from them, to the detriment of the Darkness."_

"Ryn!" he gasped. She didn't _know_!

"Estë told me," she answered, teeth clenched, and he wondered briefly if the prophecy had intensified their Bond to the point she could read his mind. "Let's finish this."

The two stepped forward again, facing down the rising mist as Melkor recovered from the aborted blow and ensuing flash of power; when an evil-looking red bolt struck Ryn straight in the chest and she stumbled.

Kíli heard her cry out, felt the pain echo across their connection, cursed himself for a fool—they had forgotten about the stunned warlocks…

But to his surprise, the blow merely stung his beloved, the Starstone glowing brightly in her clenched fist—_and when had she picked that up anyway?—_and she shook herself and settled into a defensive stance against Melkor.

"Gandalf, do you mind?" she asked politely, and Kíli didn't need to look to know that behind them, the Istari was laying into the four warlocks easily, his own power more than a match for Melkor's greatest servants.

With those enemies distracted and the orcs still tied up by the allied forces of Erebor, Mirkwood, Dale, and Ered Mithrin; Kíli and Ryn threw all their focus at the Dark Vala now standing before them. Melkor's dim features twisted into a snarling grin and he all but threw himself at them. Kíli raised his sword instinctively, and suddenly they were all three locked in a melee that he had no _conscious_ idea how to survive.

Magic swirled around the two, golden sparks highlighting each blow, driving the Dark Vala back with each strike until they had left the hillock and were on even footing again, the sparse autumn grass burning in patches where the sparks landed. Black mist swirled around them too, the answer to their own magic, but none of Melkor's curses could touch them as long as Ryn held the shining Stone in her hand. Somehow she seemed to know it, and never let go. Kíli easily dodged each of Melkor's strikes, somehow able to tell when and where they would land before they ever got there.

_The Healer and the Seer_, he remembered, awed at how it was manifesting. Melkor couldn't touch him because he saw his blows coming in advance, and his magic couldn't hurt them because Ryn held the single most powerful healing stone in all of Middle Earth.

He barely had realized it before he saw—well, _Saw_—Melkor move with preternatural speed, switch the direction of his blow, and cleave Ryn right in two.

There wasn't even time to shout a warning before it was happening for real, but _praise the Valar_, somehow she had known it too, and threw herself forward, up in Melkor's space, in one of her favorite moves. He snarled and shoved her back; but Kíli was there, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, and on a crazy whim he grabbed the Vala by the throat and yanked him down so they were face to face.

Shocked it had worked—Melkor wasn't exactly a physical being, after all—he nevertheless wasted no time.

"You do _not_ belong here," he said, low and dangerous. "You are _not_ welcome. Go back to the Void from whence you came!"

He brought his sword—forged by Thorin Oakenshield himself, with the dwarven steel that came only from the Blue Mountains—arcing down in a deadly curve; and Ryn struck at the same time, her elven blade living up to its name as both swords stabbed into the near-solid mist that was Melkor.

For two seconds, nothing happened except Kíli glared into red eyes that were wide with shock and hatred. Then Melkor's form flashed with dim lightning and his already-fading features jerked into a grimace. The sun peeked over the horizon behind Kíli's back at that very moment, just in time for him to fully see the Dark Vala open his mouth and scream as the light of his red eyes failed.

* * *

_Mygi kraftr Valar o öldengunym upraet hið ila semme renur í gegnum æðar pínar_—"May the power of the Valar and the Ancients purge the evil which flows through your veins."

* * *

**A/N:** Oh my gosh you guys, so this is _it!_ The big climax! I sincerely hope it was worth the wait and the twists and turns and cliffies...**thank you all SO MUCH** for reading til now! You. All. Rock.

Seriously.

**Thank you.**

But we have two more chapters to go still! Anybody care to hazard a guess what those two will consist of?

Special thanks to **summerald**, who made me cry with her praise after beta reading this for me and has been at my side pretty much since this whole thing started over a year ago. Thanks also to **ALL OF YOU** who've read, followed, favorited, and reviewed-your support means the world!

Blessings!


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Melkor's eyes dimmed, and Ryn felt the Stone scorch her palm as it flashed blinding white. On instinct, she wrenched Kíli's arm from his sword, knocking him to the ground as the black mist exploded in a concussive shockwave around them. It rippled outward with a deafening growl, mowing down all four of the Dark Vala's warlocks, who screamed and did not rise. The orcs and goblins seemed to realize their leader was gone and all semblance of a battle plan dissolved completely. The War Beasts and mewlips looked confused and turned to run away from the sharp arrows and axes that cut into their flesh.

Within minutes, the allied forces of Mirkwood, Dale, and Erebor were happily engaged in a rout. The rapidly-diminishing numbers of Melkor's thugs broke entirely then, trying to flee to the North.

But neither Ryn nor Kíli were even aware of any of it. Ryn, frankly, was struggling to even remain conscious, blackness bleeding into the edges of her vision as she clung tightly to Kíli where he lay, flat on his back in the dirt.

"Rye?" a familiar voice croaked, but it wasn't Kíli—_he_ seemed to be as devastatingly exhausted as she, and hadn't moved or spoken since stabbing Melkor. Ryn would've been worried, except that her Senses—so attuned it was nearly painful—told her he would be fine. A hand shook her shoulder, jerkily, and the voice came again. "Rye, wake up!"

She pried her eyes open with no small amount of difficulty, to see a head of frazzled brown hair tickling her nose and cheeks. Startled, she gasped a little and jerked, and the head pulled back with a murmured exclamation of relief. "Oh thank the Valar, Rye!"

Blinking, her eyes met hazel ones. "Talos?"

_Mahal_, her voice was wrecked.

"Is it over? Is he gone? Are you all right?" The rapid-fire questions made her dizzy, and she had to shut her eyes again to ward off the wave of nausea that accompanied it. Talos shook her shoulder and she moaned. "Rye, talk to me! _Namad_?"

"He's gone," she managed, wanting nothing more than to just embrace the blessed darkness of sleep. But it was not to be, for Kíli began then to stir and Talos was pulling her upright and against his chest roughly. She could feel him trembling, hear his heart racing, and she patted his arm in a vague sort of way, hoping to assure him of her well-being.

"I's over, _nadadith_. Kíli's…healed 'n…Melkor 's gone."

"Prince Kíli! Lady Ryn?" another new voice. Ryn burrowed deeper into her brother's chest, not wanting to face anyone just yet.

She was so _tired_.

But then there were people all around the three exhausted dwarves; men and elves and other dwarves, asking questions, demanding answers, calling her name and Kíli's, trying to pluck her from Talos' arms—that particular dwarf earned a vicious growl from her brother—and it was all just too much, too fast.

Darkness descended.

She came to what must've been a moment later; she was still on the field, there were still too many people around, though some blessed soul had backed the crowd up. Kíli was calling her name from somewhere nearby, his voice hoarse and ragged.

"Ryn? _Ryn_!"

She fumbled for his hand and squeezed it. "Here…right here," she whispered.

"Ryn!" a feminine voice this time, one she recognized. She forced her eyes open again, shuddering at the early-morning light that blinded her. "'Nora?" she mumbled, judging by the voice alone, since she couldn't see a thing.

"Yes," her friend sighed in relief. "Yes, I am here. Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, leaning heavily on Talos, his arms still around her.

"Good," Anora breathed. "We need you."

_For healing,_ Ryn realized. _They need me to Heal. That's who I am, right? The Healer—yes. That's my job. Healing._

"Can't," she nearly whimpered. She was _so tired._

"Please," Anora was begging, tears in her voice, and a vague part of Ryn realized it had to be serious for that—Sêla, perhaps. Or maybe their father. She struggled upright at the idea, fighting dizziness the whole way despite Talos' help.

"Who?" she asked, hooking an arm around her brother's neck and searching for Kíli with streaming eyes. He lay next to her, clutching her fingers as Gandalf helped him into a sitting position.

"Fíli."

Kíli's gray face paled further, eyes widening as he found her gaze. Ryn felt like she'd been punched in the gut—losing Fíli would be a blow neither she nor Kíli were ready to handle. She looked around sluggishly for the Stone before realizing it was still in her aching hand, her fingers clenched tight around its unyielding surface. Her skin stung where it had seared her palm, but she didn't dare let go now.

She was going to need it to help Fíli, she had a feeling.

"Ready?" Talos murmured in her ear, and she realized slowly that he meant to carry her. Tears sparked in her eyes at the kindness of it—she didn't have extra energy to spend on walking—and she nodded. Talos stood, cradling her close, steady despite his own fatigue.

"Take us to him."

* * *

Anora prayed constantly, a litany of pleas cycling through her mind with every step back toward the Mountain.

_Please let him hold on._

_Don't let him have slipped away while I was gone._

_Give Ryn strength to help._

_Please let Kíli be all right._

_Please_.

Talos was barely half a step behind her, holding his sister in his arms—a position of both assistance and protectiveness, Anora recognized. It was clear the lass was too weak to so much as hold her head up for long; Anora tried not to think about how much energy healing Kíli and then defeating a Vala had taken, and how much Ryn had left to spare.

Because if she did, she just might lose her head entirely.

So she kept walking, quickly, carefully storing her terror and helplessness away for later—she could deal with it once everyone was back on their feet. Or at the very least, not in imminent danger of dying.

"How…bad?" Ryn was mumbling from beside her, where Talos had caught up.

_Mahal, there is no way she can manage this right now…_

"Bad," she answered tightly. "He will not wake. His legs were crushed by a boulder, he has several broken ribs; but the most worrying is the massive contusion to his skull." She looked over at Ryn. "The healers are near panic."

Ryn shifted in Talos' arms. "Yes—'s bad."

Anora nodded and walked a bit faster.

They reached the Healing Ward minutes later, and Anora led them into the largest of the private rooms. Two healers hovered near the King, who lay pale and still on a thick cot, Lady Dis holding his hand. The Princess looked up at their entrance and her eyes widened.

"Anora, is that—?"

Ryn smiled weakly as Talos placed her gently on the edge of the bed. "M'lady," she slurred only a little, then turned her complete attention to the King.

Anora stepped back, going to Dis and standing beside her to watch. Ryn ran light fingers over the bruising on the side of Fíli's head. It had swelled even worse since Anora left to find help, though the lad was just as unresponsive as he'd been all along.

"Anora?" she looked up to see her sister dash through the door. "They said you were in…" Sêla froze, taking in Ryn, Talos, taking in Fíli's state; both Dis and Anora rushed forward as she paled.

"Sêla, _namadith_, stay calm," she soothed. "Ryn will fix him."

"_Fix him?_" Sêla hissed. "She looks like she needs to be in a bed next to him!"

Anora huffed a surprised chuckle at that. "Just wait, sister."

And wait they did. Ryn's face was twisted into a grimace, and the large white gem in her right hand was glowing brightly; a magic that matched that which flowed from the fingers of her left hand into Fíli's skull.

For several long minutes, nothing noteworthy happened. A sweat broke out on Ryn's forehead and her face went even paler, her hand shaking visibly; Anora worried she might have to stop the girl. She knew the tale of how Ryn had given of her own life force to save Kíli a year prior, how they'd nearly lost her, how haunted Kíli had looked at the very idea. She hoped to Mahal that it wouldn't come to that now, because Kíli would never forgive her if she didn't stop the lass from doing something so foolish again.

Just as Anora stepped forward to pull Ryn away, both she and Fíli gasped deeply in tandem, the magic flashing before it dimmed. Ryn slumped forward into Talos' waiting arms, and Fíli yelped in pain. The healers surged forward, examining him as he looked about wildly; absorbing the sight of his mother, his beloved, his guard, his brother's _bandinh_ and _her_ brother…

"Where is Kíli?" was the first thing he said, and Anora choked on her heart.

_Thank you._

* * *

Kíli was, in fact, working his torturously slow way to his brother at that very moment, assisted by Gandalf, who had yet to let him out of his sight even though Melkor was definitely defeated. The Prince was grateful, however; because stubborn as he was, he couldn't deny he wouldn't have made it ten feet without the wizard's help.

Apparently using a Valar-bestowed Gift to destroy a Dark Lord was strenuous work.

But his fear for his brother and his _bandinh_ kept him moving forward. Ryn would help, he knew, if she was at all physically able; and probably even if she wasn't. He shuddered at the thought—losing either one of them was out of the question—and forced himself to stumble forward a bit faster. The journey was not made easier by the fact they were on a still-fresh battlefield: bodies, weapons, and debris littered the ground, which was slippery and soft with the spilt blood of his brothers and enemies alike.

Stripped bare by exhaustion, Kíli blinked back tears.

Those who hadn't chased their attackers north were beginning to pick through the carnage, looking for wounded and sorting through the dead. They stopped as he walked past, straightening to stare at the Heir of Durin who had so recently been standing with their enemies.

Kíli felt a cold sweat break out on his face that had nothing whatsoever to do with his own injuries.

He swallowed, painfully: his people were going to deserve an explanation for the last hour's…_incident_. It made him sick to think he had joined Melkor's forces, no matter what kind of hold the Vala had had on him—and the Dwarves of Erebor were unlikely to forget it. Neither they, nor the Elves of Mirkwood or the Men of Dale…even the mercenaries had seen what he'd done.

How long until word spread that Erebor's Prince was a traitor?

Kíli faltered to a halt and twisted away from Gandalf as he retched at the thought. He spat mostly bile, but his stomach didn't seem to care as it attempted to turn itself inside out, the wizard's hand firm between his shoulder blades.

"My Prince?" someone asked, and he looked up to see a grizzled old warrior standing over him, concern etched on his wrinkled face. "Are you well?"

Lacking the strength to pretend otherwise, Kíli shook his head. "Sorry," he croaked, gasping. Breathing was suddenly impossibly difficult, and tendrils of black seeped into his vision, blocking out the horrifying specter of battle. "'M so _sorry_…"

"For what?" the warrior growled. "For what that rat bastard of a Vala forced you into? Lad, there's no shame in that."

Kíli shook his head, hearing but disbelieving. He was a betrayer, had stood against his own people, and the guilt was _crippling_.

"You fought hard, and you fought well," the dwarf continued, thumping a heavy hand on Kíli's shoulder and drawing him upright to face the small crowd of bloody, worn out allies that had gathered behind him. "And you beat him. Oakenshield would be proud."

The mention of his lost uncle garnered a hard stare from Kíli as his stomach knotted painfully, but the eyes of every person that ringed him now confirmed the old warrior's words. Completely missing was the accusation and fear he'd expected; instead, they wore smiles of relief and expressions of worry.

"Now, go get yourself fixed up," the warrior said, cuffing him on the side of the head gently. "And go find that lass of yours."

Kíli nodded, swallowed, allowed Gandalf to lead him forward. Inspired by the dwarf's words, it seemed, every person they passed stopped to smile and incline their head in a gesture of respect. Touched, Kíli took a deep shuddering breath as he and Gandalf finally crossed the threshold into the Mountain. The wizard's fingers tightened on his shoulder.

"Hold your head high, Prince of Durin," the wizard murmured. "You have no cause for shame."

It was a matter of moments until they found themselves at the door to Fíli's room. The Healers had pounced the moment Kíli entered the Ward, but he steadfastly refused to be seen to until he had confirmed the state of his brother and his beloved. Grudgingly, the Master Healer had led him to Fíli's room and sternly promised to be back in five minutes.

Kíli pushed the door open and stepped in of his own volition.

Fíli was lying on a thick cot, covered in blankets, eyes closed. His face was pale, and dark circles ringed his eyes. Normally golden hair lay limp and dark with sweat and dirt against the white pillow. Even beneath the wool blankets, Kíli could see the bulk of bandages that covered his brother's torso and legs.

So Ryn had not been successful, then.

It was her he sought the next moment, and he felt the blood drain from his face when he saw her on a cot near his brother, Talos sitting vigil next to her. She looked worse than even Fíli, small and shrunken beneath the covers, her face completely colorless and breathing shallow.

"What happened?" he croaked, and everyone else looked up. He registered the presence of his mother, Sêla, and Anora before they reached him and wrapped him up in warm embraces.

"Kíli!"

"Oh Mahal, we were so _worried_—"

"We thought for sure, when we saw Ryn, that you had—"

"I am all right," he assured, wiping a tear from his mother's cheek with a dirty thumb. "It is over, Melkor is gone. What of Fíli?"

"Ryn saved him!" Sêla spoke up. "He was dying, and she brought him back. He's only sleeping now. She must have been very weak, she couldn't heal him all the way."

"Just enough to save his life," Anora added, and Kíli felt relief swamp him. His legs felt weak with it, and he managed a jerky nod.

Extracting himself from his mother and friends, he staggered over to Ryn's cot, dark eyes begging Talos for an update. The younger dwarf gave him a despairing smile that was the very picture of weariness.

"Sleeping," he simply said.

Kíli sat heavily on the edge of the cot, stretching his fingers to touch her cheek, now properly comprehending that she was actually _here_.

She had made it to Fjallstadr.

She had found and acquired the _Umräd_, had fulfilled her quest, and had _saved him._

When she stirred beneath his hand with a little moan and pried open dull green eyes, he broke. Kíli leaned down and pressed their foreheads together.

"Ryn," he choked, and heard her take a shaky breath.

"Kíli," she murmured. "Missed you."

He kissed her bloodless lips softly. "Missed you too."

FIN

* * *

A/N: Well, there ya have it! Melkor is defeated, Fili saved, and our lover-birds are reunited! There'll be an Epilogue coming next week, but this is the official END of the Erebor Reclaimed Series! ** Thank you _ALL_ so much** for sticking with me on this; it's been a wild, crazy journey, and I've loved sharing it with you guys!

Special thanks to **summerald** for her beta work and for being THE most rockin' friend a girl could ask for! Don't forget to check out her work on this site; she's got serious skills!

In case any of you are wondering, I am NOT done with Ryn. My Camp NaNo project this April is to start the process of converting this series into an original work that I hope to get published someday! *crosses fingers* I will certainly keep you all apprised of any developments on THAT end, should you wish.

Just as many fan fic writers, though, I've got more than one fandom I'm involved in, and numerous stories chasing themselves around my skull; so my next fan fiction is going to be a Supernatural story. If you're part of that fandom, feel free to come on over and join me for another big adventure! The story will be called _Livin' On A Prayer_, and should be up in the next day or two.

Thanks again, everyone! Stay tuned for the Epilogue!


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

* * *

Kâf thumped quietly into the great room of the Library sometime just before dawn, inhaling deeply of the tomes that grew in number every day, it seemed. Their king was indeed fond of his books, and it was something the old scribe really did appreciate about the lad—Erebor's Library was well on its way to becoming one of the more impressive in all of Middle Earth.

The young apprentice scholar who was currently in charge looked up as he approached. She looked surprised to see him, but bowed respectfully.

"Master Kâf. I did not expect to see you here today; are not classes suspended in honor of the Prince's wedding?"

"They are," the older dwarf answered with a smile. "But I have come on an errand. I was told there was a package left here yesterday?"

"Oh yes, Marin told me before he left last night. From the Royal Quarters, and addressed to you specifically," the lass drew a smallish square parcel from the locked cabinet behind the desk and held it out to him. Kâf smiled and took it, nodding his thanks.

He had wondered when this would come.

Reverently, he placed the package on a table in a secluded corner of the great room, untying the twine to get to the letter beneath. His smile widening, he unfolded it and read the familiar neat handwriting:

_My dearest Master Kâf,_

_Please find enclosed the account of our journey to Fjallstadr and back last year. As I mentioned to you, Elof recorded several of his own thoughts during that quest and they were discovered among his things after we returned; I have included these throughout the record. I hope this is of an acceptable quality; I am many things, my friend, but a scholar is not one. I have, however, done my best, and wish to present this to the Library in honor of the lad who loved it so well, brief as his time with us was: Elof, Son of Maera, Child of Man and Heir of the Eiri. _

_I look forward to seeing you at the ceremony tomorrow afternoon._

_Respectfully,_

_Lady Deorynn, Daughter of Haelric_

Kâf brushed rough fingers over his cheek, unsurprised when they came away damp. "Blasted younglings," he muttered. "I'm too old to be dealing with such…_empathy_." Scholar the lass may not be—and her official duties as Princess in addition to her more informal position as a Captain amongst Erebor's warrior cadre would take up too much time for her to ever be properly apprenticed as one now—but she was still intelligent and literate, so the project he had requested of her was one he knew she could complete. She had been worried about doing Elof justice, but he had convinced her no one could honor the lad better than the ones who had loved him best. Thus persuaded, she had agreed, and he could not wait to see the results of her labor.

He unwrapped the parcel slowly, smiling when the skin fell away and the tome was revealed.

It was obvious the lass had worked hard on it. The cover was of tooled leather—a skill at which he knew she excelled—light and glossy. He was no leatherworker, but even he could recognize quality when he saw it; and this was of excellent quality. It was smooth beneath his fingers, and the runes tooled painstakingly across the front said simply, _"Our Reader."_

_A fit title_, he thought, opening the tome and settling down in one of the plush chairs. He was going to be here for a few hours.

* * *

Fíli opened his eyes, lazily noting that his foot was cold before slipping it back beneath the wools. Grinning, he snuggled up to his sleeping wife, wrapping his chilled limb around her warm one and sighing at the sensation. Sêla shifted with a small gasp and a _"What in Mahal's name…?" _Fíli couldn't hold back the snicker that escaped his lips, and the lass countered with an elbow to his ribs—and not a gentle one.

"Oof!" he grunted, rubbing the offended side petulantly. "Sêla!"

"Oh 'm so sorry," she mumbled, turning over to go back to sleep. "Di'n't know you were there."

Fíli snorted and scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her to draw her back against his chest. Sêla squeaked in protest. "Go 'way. I'm mad at you and your freezing feet." But she was smiling.

They lay like that for a moment, before Fíli smiled. "It's today," he murmured into his wife's shoulder, and he could practically _feel_ her smile widen.

"Yes," she acknowledged. "I'll have to get up and help her get ready soon."

Fíli chuckled. "And I Kíli. Poor lad was a nervous wreck last night after that patrol briefing."

Sêla turned over at that, meeting his eyes in the dim light, chuckling. "So was Ryn when I saw her. I don't know why, it's simply a formalization of what is already there between them."

"Ryn isn't much for ceremonies."

"This is true."

"And Kíli is terrified he'll do something wrong and shame his wife-to-be."

She laughed then, full and rich. "I doubt that is even possible at this point. They've been through too much."

"Mmm."

Silence for a moment, before Sêla spoke again. "When did you realize, Fíli?"

The question made him grin again, knowing what she meant. "When we left her in Rivendell, Thorin told her to stay until we had finished our Quest and he could recognize her properly for her services to the family—you know the story."

Sêla nodded.

"Well, you also know Ryn, so you can imagine how well that particular order went over." His wife laughed, and he continued. "Kíli, of course, hated how we'd left her—a simple note as we slipped away in the night—so he'd been moping for four days. I was trying to cheer him up when we turned a corner and _boom!_ there she was."

"Oh, Thorin must have been _furious_."

"He was," Fíli grinned. "He was shouting and red-faced and in rare form. It was beautiful. But Kíli ran to her so fast I barely had time to register his absence, and I think that's when I first knew."

Sêla snuggled against his chest. "Did it bother you?"

"Only when they couldn't seem to make up their minds if they were going to commit or not," he sighed. "But I always liked her for him; bloodline aside, she's everything I ever hoped for Kíli."

"I can see why."

They lay for another few minutes before Fíli sighed and kissed Sêla's brow. "We'd best get moving before our respective guests of honor go crazy with nerves." She giggled and nodded, kissing him deeply before tossing the covers off and climbing out of bed.

* * *

It was a strange thing, Ryn reflected as she sipped at a tankard of Erebor's best ale, the things a person didn't know about themselves until they were tested. Eyeing the revelers with a smile, she searched for—and found—her beloved, her _husband_ now, stomping and whirling with Anora, his laughing face once again open and expressive.

Kíli's recovery, once Melkor was dealt with, had been swift. Much swifter than hers; for it seemed the use of the _Umräd_ had drained her in every possible way—including her ability to resist infection and disease—and she had been plagued by both for _months_ after the Battle. The healers had done everything they could, but Ryn had known the only real answer was just to rest and recover. And, she had to admit, after so many months devoted entirely to trying to save Kíli's life and sanity—first via research and then via travelling and fighting and encounters with Valar—it was nice to just be taken care of for a while, first by the healers and then by a very insistent Lady Dis.

"_You are family now, lass, now hush and let me help."_

But tonight, on the one-year anniversary of their victory over the Dark Vala, Ryn and Kíli were both healthy and strong. Tonight they had united in marriage under a canopy of stars, while the elves and crickets sang together in celebration. Tonight the struggles of the last three years faded away in the glow of joy as she danced until her legs ached and her chest stung through gasps of joyful laughter.

So she had sat, fanning her flushed face and accepting something Lady Dis offered.

"Time for water, lassie," Dis laughed. Ryn smiled, knowing she'd not want to be dealing with ale sickness the morning after her wedding night. She raised the mug in a salute to the Lady and drank deeply.

"Thanks, Ma," she said. Dis smiled wider at the title and squeezed Ryn's shoulder.

The revelry lasted well past dawn—dwarves, men, and elves were alike in the way they loved to celebrate for any and all reasons—but Ryn and Kíli retired just past midnight. It had been a long and busy day for them both.

She stood in their room quietly while he finished up in the attached washing room. Her calloused fingers ran slowly over the contours of a face Ori had drawn the night before she left for Fjallstadr over a year ago. She and her brother were featured in the drawing, but it wasn't their figures she studied just now. Instead, the face of the young Man who grinned up at her held her eyes.

"What is it, _amrâmilê_?" Kíli asked, his warm hands closing around her upper arms as he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. She held the drawing up so he could see.

"I wish he'd been here," she murmured. "He and all the others."

Kíli rubbed her arms and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Like your parents?" he asked gently. Ryn nodded, blinking back the sudden moisture in her eyes.

"And Aran."

"Uncle Thorin. He would've been thrilled for us. We might've even gotten a smile out of him."

Ryn giggled at that, and Kíli pressed his lips to the warm skin where her shoulder met her neck. She sighed, leaning back into him and allowing a couple of tears to fall for those they had lost on the journey to this place—this place where Melkor was defeated, Kíli healthy, Erebor ruled by an Heir of Durin and his beautiful queen….

Where a rogue half-dwarf warrior was now a Princess.

Placing the drawing back at its honored place on the mantle, Ryn turned to face her Prince with a smile.

"Big day," she whispered. It was, in more than one way. The idea of being a Princess still gave her pause.

"Are you afraid?" he whispered. She smiled, recognizing the question that had first opened them to one another, nearly three years prior. She leaned in, lips hovering over his.

"Not this time."

* * *

**A/N: THERE IT IS!** That's a wrap, ladies and gentlemen! Hope it lived up to expectations, and if I haven't thanked you all enough-once more, **THANK YOU** for reading, following, PM-ing, reviewing, and enjoying! I appreciate every single one of you, more than I can say.

Special thanks to **summerald** for her assistance with this Epilogue. To quote the writers of Supernatural, "Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are _impossible_. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can...And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass." Truer words have never been spoken, and I agonized over this ending for too many days before it finally came out right, and Summer's help was literally invaluable. Thanks, girl!

What is that saying about the end of one journey being the beginning of another? I'm definitely not finished writing-next on the docket is converting this into an original work, finishing my co-writing project with Summer (you can find it under the title _Wayfarers_, written by **summerandblue**), and embarking on an all new multi-chapter AU for the tv show "Supernatural" called _Livin' On A Prayer_. Please do check out either of those if they pique your interest!

Thanks again, y'all! Blessings!

Blue


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